Mind Hemorrhages: Dark Tales of Misery and Imagination

by Dane Hatchell

  Pushing its undead nose to the beard of the jovial garden gnome, it pulled back with the answer it sought. The zombie gnome opened its mouth wide, flesh still wedged between its teeth, and vomited blood mixed with soul from its inner caldron.

  The vile emesis ran down the gnome’s bright open eyes and boyish grin hiding beneath a full beard. The stone body begin to quiver. The blood streaks came alive and snaked around the body, twisting and turning until not a spot was left uncovered.

  A slight hum filled the air as the gnome progressed through the strange metamorphosis. The statue, once an inanimate lump shaped into a creature of myth, transformed into something dead, but alive. As God formed man from the earth, the zombie gnome firstborn had created another in its image, after its likeness.

  The new creation opened its eyes for the first time and raised its arms to feel the air. Its face slowly contorted to reflect the evil of the tainted soul that lurked within. With some hesitancy, it stepped forward; trying out his its new limbs that would aid in fulfilling his mission.

  The zombie gnome firstborn didn’t smile, but sensed that its new creation was good. Four other captured souls festering inside fought to find a new home. Not far, placed strategically on a log with a row of verbena as a backdrop, was the next garden gnome waiting for its wicked evolution. It was the beginning of the Dark Army.

  *

  Bacon sizzled in a black iron skillet older than the cook. Ryan Moore multitasked in the kitchen preparing breakfast for his guests. Waffles browned in the maker. The rich aroma of fresh coffee carried into the living room where Tom O’Donnell sat up from the couch where he had rested for the night.

  Chris McGuire entered the room enduring a long yawn and with eyes still heavy from sleep. “Moring, Ryan.”

  “Good morning. Sleep well?”

  “I slept just fine. I’m still feeling some jet lag, though,” Chris said.

  “Coffee’s ready. The mugs are in the cabinet over the sink. Sugar’s on the table and milk in the fridge if you want any,” Ryan said, draining the bacon on paper towels.

  Tom stumbled in the kitchen, scratching his backside. “You guys are up early.”

  “It’s after nine A.M.,” Ryan said.

  “Like I said, early.”

  “You’re only going to be visiting for a few days, you don’t want to sleep it away,” Ryan said, cracking two eggs in the skillet to fry.

  “This house is in pretty good shape to be as old as it is,” Chris said.

  “Yeah, it’s been in the family for generations. When Dad died two years ago, he made me promise to keep it up so that I could pass it on to one of my children,” Ryan said.

  “Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen. You’ll always be too big a kid to have kids,” Tom said.

  “Hey, you never know. I might meet the right girl one day. It could happen,” Ryan said.

  “Yes, blind women need loving too,” Chris said.

  “You’re just jealous because I own this fabulous old house and the Erin go Braugh garden,” Ryan said.

  “Yeah, I can’t wait to see the garden. That was always my favorite place to play when we came to visit when we were kids,” Tom said.

  “Something Dad instilled in me long ago was to preserve the garden in honor of my great-grandfather’s memory. He said it would bring me prosperity in life, as it did him. I’ve been helping in the garden since I was old enough to walk. It’s always been a passion of mine. I guess it runs in the family,” Ryan said.

  “How much has changed in the garden from when your great grandfather planted it?” Chris asked.

  “From what I was told, it’s pretty much the same. Any shrubs or trees that died were replaced in kind, as well as the seasonal flowers that we plant. I have added a unique touch of my own to the garden. One I’m sure Great Grandpa wouldn’t mind,” Ryan said.

  “What’s that?” Tom asked.

  “I added a bunch of garden gnomes. I bought one just to see what kind of feel it would add to the garden. I loved the little guy so much that I bought more. The garden is full of them now. You’ll see. When you first walk in, you get this funny feeling that somebody’s watching you. Then, your eye will catch a gnome hiding around a bush or some flowers. I just think it’s the coolest thing. It really puts a sense of magic in the air,” Ryan said, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Wow, I can’t wait to see the garden,” Chris said.

  “Me too,” Tom said.

  “Okay, time to eat. We’ll check it out after breakfast. I’ll make a batch of bloody Marys to bring with us,” Ryan said.

  The three sat down to eat. In the garden, six zombie gnomes feasted upon a German Shepherd that followed a strange scent only to meet its ultimate demise.

  No one inside was aware of what fate had in store for them. Or, that from this day forward, Erin go Braugh garden would be known to them as: The Garden of Fear.

  The End

  Live Bait

  The sun beamed overhead announcing high noon. Otis Landry jiggled the fishing pole, hoping the bait would catch the interest of any turtles passing by. It had been forty-five minutes since his last nibble. At least the mosquitoes had called it a day. They were either full from draining him of blood or it was time for them to take a nap.

  The days catch so far would be enough to make a nice size sauce piquante for dinner, but Otis hated to waste bait. There was a good amount of it left on the end of his line, but it wasn’t as fresh and enticing as it had been.

  He grabbed another beer from the ice chest and delighted at the pop-spraying sound it made when he opened it. The cool beverage went down just as smooth and fast as the others before. How many beers had he had so far? He wasn’t sure. Either no beer, or no bait, would dictate when he would head back in.

  Lady luck had provided him with a carefree lifestyle when he had won the state lottery. After taxes, he still had a few million left over. Instead of living high on the hog with a new house and fancy cars in New Orleans, he chose to become a recluse and live way down at the end of the boot of Louisiana, near the small town of Empire.

  He bought an old shack on a bayou far from the main center of the little town. His main concern in life had become what he loved best: turning beer into urine, and fishing.

  The beer can’s bottom turned up and the last drop of liquid hit his tongue. Otis crushed the can in a microsecond and tossed it on the boat bottom. A childhood memory flashed in his mind when beer cans used to be made of steel and had no pop-tops. He had to pierce the top with a tool that left a triangular shaped hole on one side, turn the can 180 degrees, and make a smaller hole. The smaller hole allowed air to enter so the beer flowed freely out the can. Life was so much easier now than then.

  Otis lifted his pole to check the bait on the end of the line. The hook was still secure in the back of the little denim jumper, and there was some left leg remaining from the knee up and a whole left arm connected to the torso that could bait at least two more turtles by itself. Fishing had been more successful while the infant was still alive. That little bugger pitched a fit, slapping the water like a bug in distress. Hell, turtles loved eating a fresh meal. The kid might as well have said, “Eat me! Come and get it!” Those turtles swam over like they were in an Olympic competition, stretching their necks out as if first bite wins. Once they started feeding, it was easy to get the pole net under and pull them to the boat.

  Otis reached blindly into the ice chest and came back with an empty hand. The sun had begun to beam straight down on his head. There was no way he could last much longer without beer. He lifted the bait out of the water and into the boat, and then removed the little jumper with the bright colored embroidered flowers from what was left of the carcass.

  As he paddled his narrow pirogue down the murky bayou, he searched the muddy banks until he found an alligator warming in the sun. The gator resembled a four foot smiling log. Otis tossed the remains of the infant to the living fossil when he got within throwing distance, telling the gator
that it owed him a favor.

  Years ago he met a man who grew up in South America where crocodiles were raised in farms. The man said if you feed the crocs fish, the meat tasted like fish. If you fed the crocs chicken, the meat tasted like chicken. If you catch a croc in the wild and the meat had an indescribable taste, don’t eat it. Enemies of the government were easily disposed of in such a way.

  His trip back to camp was quite picturesque. Large cypress trees with mighty moss covered arms reached to the sky. Their bare roots grew directly into the water.

  According to legend, Spanish moss was the beard of the bully Gorez Goz. As Gorez Goz climbed after a young Indian girl, his beard supposedly became tangled in the tree’s branches. The girl escaped, but the moss remained as a testimony of his failed effort to this day.

  Palmettos, ferns, and emerging blackberry stalks grew around water tupelo and red maples. All of which provided homes for indigenous birds and insects.

  Otis tied his pirogue to his new boat dock, one of the few excesses he had spent some of his lottery winnings on. The newness did take away from the quaint ambiance of the fisherman’s camp, but it was nothing like the eye sore of his 40 by 50 steel building workshop. Even though he had tried to camouflage the shop by choosing hunter-green for the color, it still looked like a nasty metal box amongst the cool, dark bayou forest.

  Otis took his burlap sack full of turtles out the boat and carried them into his workshop. After punching in his lock code, the alarm light changed from red to green. He entered from one of the standard doors on the side.

  The building was well lit with florescent lights hanging from the ceiling, giving off their yellowish glow, and low pitch buzzing sound. The walls were organized with everything having a place. There were a countless number of rods and reels, and hundreds, if not thousands of fresh and salt water baits. A welding machine/generator and a number of power tools were dedicated to one corner. A walk-in deep freeze and fish cleaning sink in the other.

  A six foot wooden bench was blatantly out of place near the middle of the building. A steel cable hung above it.

  Otis placed the turtles on the side of his fish cleaning sink and turned on the water. He pulled the sack open with one hand, and with the other, used a two-inch thick oak branch to prod the nearest turtle until it latched on to it with its powerful jaws. The turtle held tightly to the stick as if his life depended on it. With its neck stretched to the limit, Otis chopped it off with his Bowie knife, and beat the stick against a garbage can until the head let loose.

  “How you two gals doing?” he asked, while prying the shell off the first turtle. “Y’all’s about ready for some lunch?” Otis turned his head to the side giving them a jagged grin.

  “You’re sick. You’re just fucking sick.” A young woman with a creamy complexion and an athletic build stood dressed in a string of catfish around her hips and a necklace of brim around her neck.

  “Sarah, don’t,” the other girl begged. “He might hurt us.”

  “He’s not going to let us go, Marie. He kidnapped us, and now has us wearing fish for some sick fetish he has. He won’t let us go until we’re dead.”

  Both women were handcuffed and chained to the steel cable above. They were free to move from side to side the length of the cable, which was not more than ten feet.

  “Now, now, don’t go jumping to conclusions,” Otis cleared his throat and spat out some phlegm. “I told you gals when I picked you up—cash, grass, or ass, no one rides for free. Once you work it off, I’ll let you go.”

  “Hey asshole, I told you I’m a Neurologist. I have plastic. I could have gotten you the cash. You’re so full of shit, sick motherfucker. What about, Marie? She was here two days before me. When are you going to let her go?” Sarah fumed.

  “So much education and yet such a foul mouth.” Otis fished another turtle out of the sack, cut through the neck, and frowned. “I don’t like women with foul mouths.”

  “I don’t like sick, motherfucking, asshole, pig shit eating sadists,” Sarah screamed, and broke into tears.

  “Sarah, stop.” Marie’s voice trailed off.

  “Huh, I could have just left you on the side of the road and let the gators get you,” Otis mumbled. He turned his head again and yelled back. “I’ve given you food and a five gallon bucket to squat on. Things could be a whole lot worse. Hell, Marie there can leave anytime she wants. Just ask her.”

  Marie turned her back to Sarah and then stared at the floor.

  “Marie? Marie, is that true?” Sarah asked.

  “When . . . when Otis picked me up . . . he made me an offer. He’s paying me five hundred dollars a day to . . . to play like this,” Marie said.

  The skin crinkled on Sarah’s forehead as her eyes widened. “What? Are you serious? Are you just as fucked up as he is?”

  “He paid me three thousand dollars up front . . . he . . . said that he would give me a thousand more if I could get you to do things with me.”

  Sarah’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sitting here half naked, wearing dead fish whose fins are cutting into me, stinking to high heaven, and you think I’d want to do something kinky for that sick son of a bitch?”

  “He said he’d pay you too.”

  “My god. I can’t believe any of this.” Sarah sighed.

  Otis finished with the last of the turtles and put the rest of the meat in a metal colander to drain. He wiped his hand on an old towel, opened a mini-fridge, and took out a beer. “Anyone thirsty?”

  “Water. I want water,” Sarah demanded.

  “Well, told you that I don’t have water. I got beer. You want some beer?”

  “Give me a damn beer then, you freak,” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, Otis. I’ll take one too.” Marie’s demeanor had entirely changed.

  Otis tossed them each a can, and kept a watchful eye on Sarah. He wanted to be ready if she decided to throw it back at him.

  Marie opened the beer, and drank it down without coming up for air.

  Sarah stared at her with her mouth open.

  “Otis, you got any smokes? Hell, you might as well get me out of these cuffs. She ain’t into this. You need to put her ass back on the road,” Marie said.

  “Uh, well, I guess you’re right. We’ve gone about as far with this as we can.” Otis carried a key ring on his belt. He pulled the keys off and unlocked Marie’s cuffs.

  “What? That’s it? Just like that? What about me? When do I get to go?” Sarah said.

  “I got to take Marie to New Orleans. I’ll be back later tonight, and we’ll see about getting you to your car tomorrow,” Otis said.

  “Let me go now!”

  “You’re in no position to tell me what to do,” Otis said creepily.

  “What makes you think you can get away with this?”

  “You mean the law? Haw! I bought the Sheriff and Judge the first week I moved here. They’ll never believe you, and might arrest you for drug trafficking or some other shit charge if you ever show your face back down here.”

  Sarah took a slow sip of beer and grimaced.

  “Of course, if you were willing to do a few favors for me I could let you go today,” Otis said.

  “You touch me and I will kill you, you sick perv.”

  Otis frowned as the sides of his neck turned beet-red. “Let’s go, Marie.”

  The two left the workshop. Otis reset the alarm, and told Marie, “Turn around and I’ll cut the fish line off. You can and go inside and shower.” As she turned her back, he pulled a blackjack from his back pocket and slammed it into the side of her head.

  ***

  Marie awoke to the stars and the moon hanging in a cloudless night sky above, floating somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico. She was lying on her back tied to a piece of plywood that had floats attached underneath. Her legs hung off the side, bobbing up and down in the water, feeling like they were on fire.

  A spot light from Otis’ Bay boat focused directly on her. The stinging sensation from her legs was f
rom the numerous slices made by a box cutter. Marie became more aware of her surroundings as she gained consciousness and started to cry.

  Otis picked up the ancient telephone magneto off the boat floor. The wires led from the back of his boat, down the rope to the makeshift raft where they were attached to Marie’s ankles. He called out, “Marie, hush that crying now.”

  “What the hell are you doing to me? Get me off this damn thing before—”

  What came next out of Marie’s mouth was a combination of incoherent babble and screams of pain. Her upper body jerked against the ropes and her legs flailed about uncontrollably.

  Otis laughed to himself as he turned the crank and ‘dialed her in,’ sending 110 volts down the wires to her ankles. “Ain’t nuthin’ like live bait.”

  Another beer from the ice chest and he was ready for his ‘catch’ of the day.’

  Marie sobbed in despair, repeating a prayer her mother taught her years ago.

  It happened so quickly and unexpectedly Otis almost missed it. His head had been tilted back for a guzzle of beer when Marie’s leg from her left foot to her knee disappeared. A dark object went up and down in the water snatching it away.

  Marie gasped loudly, but immediately fell silent with a frozen expression of fear on her face.

  Otis let the beer fall to the deck as he scrambled to retrieve the harpoon. He made sure the coil of rope and attached floats weren’t tangled and positioned himself in the rear of the boat, ready for action.

  This time when the great bull shark came up, it bit Marie right across her tits, getting more than he bargained for with a mouthful of plywood and plastic. Otis steadied his aim and plunged the harpoon into its back, near the head of the ferocious fish.

  The shark didn’t care too much for the harpoon, and abandoned Marie, heading straight for the bottom of the Gulf. Otis moved quickly to one side as the rope attached to the harpoon uncoiled and zipped into the water. The floats attached to the rope followed one by one, putting the brakes on the two hundred pound eating machine.