The Collected Horrors of Tim Wellman

by Tim Wellman

  "But, I don't know what the question is, Gramma," Janice said.

  "Call me Stella. I'm too young and pretty to be called 'Gramma'." She looked down and smiled. "You want to know what the dark things are, right?"

  Janice nodded. "But..."

  "If we don't continue they won't leave you alone until they get you." She reached out and grabbed the corner of the old door and pulled it open. Inside there was only a long hallway in near-darkness and as they entered it seemed palpable; Janice could taste it, could feel it in her lungs like breathing in water. "Try not to breathe."

  "What? How can I do that?" Janice said. She held her breath a few seconds and then felt she had to exhale... but the feeling passed. She was scared and started to panic because she thought she may be dead.

  "See?" Stella said. "Your body is still in your room, what you feel here is just your soul, and that doesn't need to breathe. But there are things here who will recognize you by the memory of your breathe."

  "Is that why you're so young and pretty? This is what you dream yourself to be?"

  Stella nodded. "Here, you are the age you wish yourself to be," she said.

  "Oh," Janice said. "But, I'm the same, right?" She thought about it for a moment. "So, I wish to be this age?"

  "All children wish to be older, but you can't be older than you really are," Stella said. "When you get older, you wish you were younger. Now, hush up and pay attention." She picked up the pace and was almost dragging Janice through the darkness until there was a light breeze. In the hideously stifling darkness the tiny breeze, perhaps no more powerful than a breath, was like a refreshing ocean wind. But they kept walking. There was a bright light and music coming from another direction, but still they walked forward. She was starting to lose some of her fear, starting to look more carefully at the various things she saw, some grotesque, some inviting.

  But Janice soon lost all the happy thoughts and, though the darkness, now that her eyes had become better adjusted, was only as bright as a quarter-moon night, she could make out shapes. It was them, the things she had seen in her dreams, only more clearly defined now, slug-like, and sickeningly real. Still, the light didn't seem to illuminate them; they seemed to exist as darkness, non-reflective, simply darkness itself. "That's them," she whispered.

  "This is sort of a holding tank, apparently. I've been here before." She whistled and they all seemed to pause, and, as far as a head could be made out, turned to face Stella and Janice. But they did nothing and almost instantly, they went back to swirling around and rolling around on each other, as if they were involved in some sort of ritual or orgy. "They only seem to pick up on ya if you're breathing."

  "But, these things, they're demons, right?" Janice said.

  Stella patted her on the head. "Who knows," she said. "I think 'demons' may just be a name we humans have invented because most people can't even imagine a suitable name for things like these. There are good things here, too. That's why I called what you have a gift earlier... though where these things are concerned, it's a curse."

  She looked up at her grandmother, just able to make out her features. "How do you know about this place? Is it really hell?"

  "It just seems like hell because it's so weird, so I named it that. This one is ours. Others might be different... at least I think that's true. There's no manual. I'll need to guide you when you come here until you're old enough to make your way around by yourself. Even if I'm no longer around in the real world, you can find me outside the door when you dream yourself here."

  "Why would I want to come here again?" Janice said. "It's horrible here."

  "You will need to come here again, trust me," Stella said. "You will lose things, feelings, people, all through the rest of your life... but sometimes you can still find them here. Half of a lifetime is made up of not saying goodbye... here, you can."

  "We could at least have been given underwear," Janice said.

  "Oh. I actually like that part." she snickered. "But keep watching," she said. "There!" A small red ball appeared in the midst of the things and they all attacked like hungry piranhas, devouring it with snarls and splashes of red. "That was a heart."

  "A heart? A human heart?" Janice said. "I want to leave, now, please."

  "A heart freely given as a sacrifice so that you can live without them," Stella said. "They were only visiting my house because of me. These things you see create Death."

  And with those words, she disappeared, leaving Janice alone in the darkness, too afraid to move. She had a heart and she just knew if she moved or cried, even though she had never wanted to cry more in her entire life, they would find her and rip it out of her chest and eat it, too. "Gramma?" There was only the sickening sound of the things wallowing on each other. "Stella?" She took a few steps backward, and then decided she knew close enough where the door was and started walking quickly, almost running, in that direction. And she thought she could see a light, a long sliver of light where a crooked door might be hanging. But the darkness closed in around the light and it disappeared like a distant bird getting lost in the huge expanse of an evening sky. She had to stop. But the excitement, the fast pace, had caused her to start breathing again. She panicked. They would find her!

  But she suddenly jerked awake in her own bed. She was alone. She jumped to the floor, ran across her room and threw open the door. "Gramma!" There was no answer but her mother had heard her yelling and came through her bedroom door and joined her in the hall. "It's Gramma," Janice said. They both ran down the huge stairway and through the wide doorway and into the living room. And there was the old woman.

  "Mom?" her mother said. She walked to Stella's big chair and knelt down and grabbed her wrist. "Janice, sweetie, go back to your room, okay?"

  "Is she dead?" Janice said.

  "Yes, sweetie," her mom said. "It must have been a heart attack."

  "They're gone," she said. "The things that were around her." She started back up the stairs and then looked back at the wrinkled old woman slumped over in the worn out chair. She smiled. "Thank you, Stella."

  Natural Causes

  It happened on a pleasant spring day as she was killing the cat. The girl was never normal; her first words were vile insults and as she grew, so did her vocabulary. She had been the first first grader ever charged with assaulting a teacher, and by second grade she had been expelled over a dozen times. She was just no good, a bad seed. But as Buttons sucked in his last breath, Lavidia slipped on the newly polished hardwood floor in the dining room and fell back against the china cabinet, knocking a heavy iron down on her head, apparently killing her instantly. She was eight years old. And when her mother found her small body, blood coating her long black hair, her black eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, her stiff fingers still wrapped tightly around the cat's throat, she panicked. She immediately reasoned that none of the authorities in town would believe the child died from an accident, not a child like Lavidia. No, the town would believe her mother reached the end of her rope and instead of cut it and fall, she had decided to eliminate the anchor pulling her down. There was nothing to do except dig a hole in the basement and give the girl a proper, though very private, Christian funeral.

  Some of the people in town might have missed the little girl, but none spoke up, most likely afraid they would jinx their good luck if they inquired too intimately. There was no one in the small town she had not insulted, frightened, or attacked physically. Many openly believed she was a demon, but some thought perhaps she was only possessed by demons. Either way, demonic powers were involved, everyone was sure of that. So it was best to leave well enough alone, and the town, and her mother, pretended there was nothing improper or unusual about the girl who was no longer there. She simply ceased to exist, marked off the ledger like a debt paid in full. And she would have probably faded completely from collective memory if Lavidia had not decided to come back.

  Jasmine Stewart was tidying up the breakfast nook after her usual sausage, eggs, and toast, and s
he placed everything in her plate and carried it to the sink. But, as she turned, her daughter was looking in through the window. She was shocked enough to drop the plate and contents, but lucky enough to drop them in the sink. But as she jumped back, the girl was gone. She decided quickly that it was guilt more than anything that might be construed as a permanent mental derailment. She smiled to herself and nodded, then turned to leave the room and Lavidia was standing in the doorway. She was nodding too.

  "You! You're..."

  "Dead?" the little girl said. "I should have done this years ago! It feels great!" She walked toward her mother and her mother walked backward until the wall stopped her escape and she was forced to endure whatever the little girl had in store for her. Surprisingly, Lavidia stopped. "I'm hungry."

  "I... I can fix more eggs," Jasmine said. "Gooey like you like them, with toast?"

  "Funny, but I seem to be hungry for something else, now," she said. "Flesh."

  "Like p-pork?" her mother stuttered.

  "Not exactly," Lavidia said. "I will need to feed soon, though, in order to keep this form."

  "You're a zombie!"

  "I'm not a zombie, mom!" she said with a smile. "I'm the same little girl you always knew."

  "Oh god, no!"

  "Ha!" the child said. "Good to see you've kept your sense of humor, what with the tragic loss of a child and all."

  "This just can't be happening!" Jasmine said. "Even you weren't evil enough to get kicked out of hell!"

  "God, who writes your lines?" Lavidia said. "I didn't get kicked out. I was politely asked to leave." She smiled. "Hey, where's Buttons?" She thought for a moment then held up a finger. "Ah, yeah, I remember."

  "You can't stay here!" her mother said. "Everyone thinks you're dead. They'll know you're a demon now if you suddenly show up."

  "Now mom, stop lying. I know you didn't tell anyone anything. It's only been a couple of weeks," she said. "They'll just think I've been sick. Besides, this is my home. Where else would I go?"

  "But, you were buried," she said. She slid across the wall and made it to a chair and sat down. Her hands were shaking as she played around with the napkin rack. "You look the same."

  "Oh, well, actually, I look like this!" she said. Suddenly, who whole body changed; her flesh was dripping off her face in a mixture of pus and blood, and maggots worked their way in and out of holes and caused the loose skin to move and undulate. Her eyes, too, changed to solid gray and dried up like raisins. And as she opened her mouth, still more worms fell out, clumped together in a slimy lump. Even her clothes had changed to rotted rags. Then she suddenly changed back and was once again a perfect little girl in a pink, frilly dress.

  Her mother stared at the girl for a moment, eyes opened wide, then fell over face first and banged her head on the table. "Oh god!" she muttered, and then banged her head again. There was the sound of a siren getting closer and she suddenly jerked up.

  "Oh, reminds me," Lavidia said. "Mary Jo Thomas is dead."

  "Oh god!" Again she banged her head on the table.

  "Oh, relax, she had one foot in the grave, anyway," the little girl said. She walked to the refrigerator and took out a small plastic bottle of orange juice, opened it, then chugged it down. "Aah!" She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and burped.

  "So, is that why you came back? To kill everyone in town?"

  "No, of course not," she said. "We're going to need more juice." She walked behind her mother and patted the top of her head. "Not everyone, just the ones on my list."

  "Oh god!"

  "You're going to hurt yourself if you keep banging your head like that."

  "Am... am I on your list?"

  "No," she said. "I need you. You're not on the list, you're going to help me take care of the list." She grabbed her mother's hair and yanked her head back so that her face was only inches from her own. "Right mommy?" Her body instantly became the rotting corpse again and a mouthful of worms and rot fell on Jasmine's cheek.

  The girl let go and Jasmine reluctantly nodded. "Whatever it is you are, it's my fault."

  "You know, I was thinking that, too," Lavidia said as her visage again renewed itself. "You did bury your sweet little child in the basement. Little known fact, I was still alive when the first shovels of dirt covered my face."

  "Oh god!"

  "That's right, mommy, you could have rushed me to the hospital and I might have been saved! Funny, huh?"

  "But, why a list? Isn't it just me you should kill?" Jasmine looked up, and then lifted herself to her feet and took a deep breath.

  "Well, there will be time for us to work out our little differences later," the girl said. "But, let's just say I've made my way through town the last few days, finding out who has been naughty or nice, and who was rejoicing over my death."

  "And the ones who were happy are on the list, huh?"

  "Yep, well, plus a couple others I just don't like," Lavidia said. "Hey, fix me up a big breakfast! I can't wait to get started!"

  "And I help you, how?"

  "Well, oddly, I still seem to have the needs of a child," the little girl said. "I need a mother to cook for me, clean for me, protect me from danger... you know, the usual family shit."

  "Just like before you died?"

  "Exactly... except for a lot of very violent and brutal murders, followed by feasting on their flesh," she said and smacked her hands together. "It'll bring us closer as mother and daughter! Bonding!"

  "Oh god!"

  "Oh, shut the fuck up."

  About The Author

  Tim Wellman was born and raised in rural West Virginia. He attended Marshall University for four years as a Creative Writing major, and won several state and school awards for writing. He then gave it up after college to become a failed comic book artist. After a short career marked most notably by starvation and extreme poverty, he decided to come back to his first love, writing.

  Several recent stories have been published in anthologies, and he has so far authored 3 novels for younger readers, and one steampunk novel for adults, called, Milk Of Ruin. Learn more at http://dreadly.net