Mind Hemorrhages: Dark Tales of Misery and Imagination

by Dane Hatchell

  “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 parted 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.

  The teen found himself in a living nightmare, far worse than any journey he had taken riding on the back of illicit drugs. What was he going to do? What in heaven’s name had just happened? No one would ever believe his story.

  As he looked about the shop, other carvings threatening to come to life had him pushing past his pain to make his exit. Flipping over on his stomach, he dragged himself across the floor and around the counter. The display of gnomes loomed across the room, waiting with impish charm.

  Seconds passed that felt like hours. The little figures remained content in their peaceful vigil. His imagination influenced reality to the point he wasn’t even sure he could trust what he remembered during the fray. A collection of wooden canes with various animal heads carved into the handles rested inside a wicker basket a few feet away. The teen crawled over and pulled the basket to the floor, spilling the contents.

  With some effort, he managed to upright himself on his knees, and chose the cane nearest to help him rise to his feet. Charles’ body lay slumped across the workbench. The gnome hid from view behind the counter.

  Thoughts of Charles coming back to life sent the teen another gift of endorphins that helped him hobble to the front. The door opened to crickets chirping and dim yellow lights above the vacant parking lot. The world was normal again. A little more meth would ease the pain until he could make it to the emergency room. His only regret, he didn’t have a match. He would have set the shop ablaze to purge his mind of the memories.

  *

  A Black Forest cuckoo clock reproduction came alive at midnight on the shop wall. A small window opened at the top of a Swiss chalet with a gentle sloping roof revealing an automaton of a little yellow bird that moved up and down at each strike of the hour. A bellows in sync sent a puff of air through pipes producing the familiar call of the cuckoo. The novelty of the timepiece was lost among the carnage of a humble man, guilty of nothing more than being a trusting soul.

  The life force inside the gnome though dim, still pulsed with ethereal energy too strong to quench. The façade that mimicked skin turned undead gray, its eyes opened bloodshot staring through the grayness of death. The first zombie gnome was born.

  The animated imp frothing with life was no more. I
nstead, the husk rose to its feet with instinct as its only guide. An insatiable hunger kindled the fires of its lust, a desire that no mere mortal had ever known. For the hollowness inside would only be satisfied by two things: the souls of the living, and the fruit of its flesh.

  The dead body of Charles offered the faintest of recognition as the undead gnome now shared elements of its life force. Its lips peeled back showing rows of deadly teeth, its nails grew long and sharp at the tips. The door to the outside was open, leading the way to a world of endless possibilities.

  *

  “Dude, we shouldn’t wait much longer. Are you ready to go to the emergency room? That thing ain’t gonna heal itself,” Smitty said.

  “In a bit. I just need to calm down some,” Riff said, holding a half-smoked cigarette between his shaky fingers. “I need to take a bath first. Change out of these clothes. I got blood all over my jacket that could tie me in with that shopkeeper.”

  “Jeez man, what’d you do to him?” Bernie asked.

  “What? Forget him! Scumbag. He was asking for it and got what he deserved,” Riff said.

  “I hope nobody saw you get in my truck that knew what you did. I would have never come and picked you up if I’d had known what you done,” Chris said. “If my brother wakes up and sees you looking like that he’s going to start asking questions. If you get him in trouble he’s going to kick me out of his trailer, and I’ll have to make it on my own.”

  “Quit being such a pussy, Chris. Your brother is somewhere over the rainbow sleeping one off in the back.”

  “Yeah, well, your ass isn’t on the line here, now is it?” Chris walked in a small circle, waving his hands in the air.

  A muffled cry rattled from the back of the trailer.

  Chris stopped cold, with mouth falling open, and eyes darting about the room. “He’s awake. Son of a bitch—he’s awake. Riff, get out of here—now!”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to get cleaned up first.”

  A blood-curdling scream from the back sent everyone’s nerves on edge.

  “What the? Chris, go back there and see what’s going on,” Smitty said.

  Chris took a deep breath and stepped toward the bedroom door. Sometimes Max, his brother, got a little out of control in his drug-induced stupors. He had a few scares on his back to remind him of it.

  As quietly as he could, he turned the knob and pushed the door open, leaning with one eye through the crack. A thin stream of light from the hall cut a swath through the darkness. Max lied motionless on his stomach, not even snoring as usual. Was it just a bad dream? Chris wondered.

  The room had an unfamiliar smell, something akin to a dead rat. At the risk of waking Max, Chris pushed the door farther open, and discovered a dark stain marking the white sheet across Max’s back.

  “What the? Hey guys, come quick!” Chris called.

  Chris flipped on the light switch and hurried to the bedside, hovering with indecision. Smitty and Bernie were the first two in. Riff followed after.

  “What wrong?” Smitty said, stepping behind Chris.

  “I don’t know. He’s bleeding from his back,” Chris said.

  “What he’d do? Scratch a zit in his sleep?” Bernie said.

  “Shut up! This is serious. I don’t think he’s breathing,” Chris said. “Should we call 911?”

  “No! The police will come and I’m not ready to leave yet,” Riff called from the doorway.

  “We’ve got to do something.” Chris grabbed onto the sheet up by Max’s shoulder and pulled it down.

  The zombie gnome sprang out from underneath and latched its teeth into the oily folds of Chris’ forehead.

  With a scream, Chris grabbed its legs as he crashed to the floor on his back. “Get it off! Get it off!”

  “The gnome is back! It’s here to get me!” Riff turned and fast-hobbled down the hall heading for the front door.

  Bernie wrapped his fingers around Chris’ hands and yanked with all his strength.

  “It’s killing me! Get it off! Uh—” Chris went limp. Bernie inadvertently pulled Chris’ hands from around the zombie gnome.

  The zombie gnome somersaulted into the air and landed on its feet, chewing on a mouthful of tasty flesh, a warm soul settling within.

  “What in the hell is that thing?” Smitty said.

  “I don’t know. Kill it!” Bernie said.

  “With what?” Smitty said.

  The zombie gnome sped to Smitty’s side and ran around his ankle, filling its mouth with chunks of flesh, circling the leg and gnawing on it like an ear of corn.

  “Hey! Ow! Ow! Ow!” Smitty screamed.

  Its tiny claws dug into Smitty’s leg. The small arms climbed up to his head, where its teeth chomped down in the back of his neck.

  “Ouch! Bernie! Help! I feel like it’s sucking my mind from out of my head! I . . . uh.”

  Any sense of loyalty to his friends vaporized as the strongest instinct known to man, survival, kicked in the afterburners. Bernie turned and ran, unable to tear his eyes away from the gnome as it fed. He had misjudged the location of the door opening and crashed head first into the door jam.

  Swallowing the last gulp of soul, the zombie gnome picked a hair from between its teeth, and sped to the side of the next victim.

  *

  Riff limped down the rural road aided only by the light of a full moon. A trail of fresh blood from the cut marked his path better than bread crumbs ever could. The fate of his friends was a luxury to be considered only once he found safety at his apartment.

  Slowing enough to glance over his should, either for the untimely arrival of the gnome, or an approaching vehicle that he could catch a ride, left him relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  His left wrist began to hurt nearly as much as his Achilles, having to support his weight with the cane. Putting that amount of pressure on it had him worried it would break off at the next step. The foot stabbed earlier had finally gone numb.

  A pair of green eyes in the bottom of a ditch illuminated by the rich moonlight flashed as a warning. Riff stopped in mid-step, his heart pounding loudly in his head.

  A mutt of a dog resembling a cross of a pit bull, black lab, and poodle, waddled out from the ditch and stepped onto the road as if the last thing it had to drink was a gallon of whiskey.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Riff felt some comfort having a dog by his side. “Hey boy, that’s a good dog. Come over here next to me.” Hopes of having a ‘man’s best friend’ for protection faded quickly as the dog stumbled to the pavement to lay motionless on its side. Its rear end dripped with fresh blood.

  “What the hell?” Another quick look about left him with the only option to continue his journey one-step at time. The cane the only weapon in his arsenal.

  The dog started shaking violently as its stomach bloated two sizes larger. The pointy hat of the zombie gnome smeared in entrails popped out first, the tiny creature emerged with a grin of wicked glee.

  Riff’s bladder showed first sign of surrender, letting loose without inhibition, warming his crotch and his right thigh. Raising the cane in a feeble act of warning, Riff poised to make his final stand.

  The zombie gnome reached Riff’s throat on its third leap. The cane smashed against the pavement completely missing the undead gnome. Riff stumbled backward with the brunt of the fall on his left elbow. The pain of a thousand knives shot up his arm into his neck. It faded into nausea and hopelessness as his soul spiraled into the void of the next dimension.

  Satisfied with the latest addition to its collection, the stealer of souls cut through the pastures heading through the deepest and darkest of the old forest, seeking the next piece to complete its plan.

  *

  Crackles of twigs and leaves rustling interrupted the dead of night as tiny feet invaded the secret world of nocturnal life. A barn owl watchful for a fat wood rat to fill its hatchling’s empty bellies thought it better to swoop down for the kill. Briers and brush parted as the zombie gnome
finally came to a clearing by an old wooden two-story house.

  In the moon’s light, the simple design gave it a quaintness the rising sun would soon steal away. An awning provided cover in the rear where an assortment of chairs were haphazardly arranged around a number of potted plants. The grass was low and wet with sprinklings of morning dew.

  A meticulously kept garden by the side of the house was a memorial to its builder, the great-grandfather of the current resident. Conor Moore constructed the house entirely from hand tools with the help of his neighbors nearly one hundred years earlier. He built the forty by forty foot garden to be a place of solitude and to remind him of his beautiful homeland, Ireland.

  Any array of flowers and ornamental bushes adorned brick paths that twisted and turned to take the visitor on a magical tour of discovery. Small trees stood to ‘bookmark’ each display before rounding the corner to the next. The various settings depicted a scene worthy to be captured in a painting. An old stone well with a water bucket that could actually be lowered by turning a crank, a wheelbarrow with seasonal flowers growing from the tray, a water pond with grasses and cattails blowing in the breeze. There were eleven separate themes in all.

  A rusty cast iron fence surrounded the garden that had stood the test of time. The garden gate was framed by two brick columns with the garden’s name arched across the top, Erin go Braugh, meaning ‘Ireland Forever.’

  The gnome entered the garden. The songs of the night creatures stopped abruptly as the intruder approached. The natural warmth the garden projected suddenly became cold, retracting within itself for preservation.

  Dotted throughout the garden, gnome statues stood as sentinels both to add charm and as a watchful eye. Each had a pointy hat and a smile that was sure to fetch a grin.

  With undead eyes, the zombie gnome firstborn fixated upon the nearest of its stone cousins. It approached in wicked contrast with claws set to slash and teeth exposed in warning, evoking emotions opposite of everything the garden was created to give.