9 Tales Told in the Dark 17

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  Corpses of men, women, and a few children littered the floor inside. Their bodies were nude and mutilated, most of them dismembered in some form or another. There was an older man whose arms had been cut off at the elbow; a younger lady, with her hands and feet crudely hacked off; another man that looked strikingly similar to the person beside himself, maybe twins, sewn together at the torso, arms and legs cut off the opposite sides to make room for the procedure. An infant's body lay just a few feet away from Bobby, and he stared in horror, wondering why it had no face before realizing that its head had simply been twisted backwards. Someone else groaned amongst the mess of carcasses and Bobby saw that though this man’s body had been separated at the waist, his legs had been replaced with those of a goat. He hung, bleeding, crucified by hooks suspending him between two poles.

  The grunting he'd heard before continued, and shell-shocked as he was, Bobby searched for the disturbance in the tent of the dead. A man, short and balding with a curled mustache, was having sex with a woman. A decapitated woman’s corpse, more accurately, her head replaced with that of a mule.

  “What… the… fuck...” Bobby whispered. It felt like his heart had stopped beating. He'd gone into a state of shock so severe he nearly forgot to breathe. His head swam with a migraine and his stomach lurched as he stared unblinking at the scene before him. As he whispered, however, the man stood from his spot on the ground, pants around his ankles, the sleeves and collar of his red suit jacket ruffled and out of place.

  “Get him!” he yelled. Bobby wanted to run, but could only stare, sure that he was experiencing a nightmare more realistic than it had any right to be. None of this can be real, can it? “I said get him!” the ringleader screamed again, raising his arms to the air. “Get up and get him, now!”

  Slowly, piles of bodies began shifting. Only inches at first, but further on, until arms and legs poked themselves through the masses of the dead and worked toward becoming fully erect. Though the bodies he'd seen up until then had been failed experiments, prototypes, and works in progress, those the man had summoned were much worse to look upon; the successes, the perfect creations to carry out their master's will. As it was, their will, at that moment, was to capture and murder Bobby.

  They acted swiftly to obey that command.

  Bobby only absorbed the bare bones of the threat he faced before turning and running as fast as his legs could take him. A bulky man with the head of a bull; a tiger, with the face of a man; a woman, with the head of a vulture and wings spreading from her back, conjoined from many different aviary predators. These things stared at him with dead eyes while he stood in the tent, and when he began to run away, they followed suit with no hesitation.

  His feet pounded the earth beneath him as he raced, panting, back toward the illuminated skyline above the circus. Goosebumps spread across his body, and though he knew not how close they were to gaining on him, he swore he could feel the beasts breathing down his neck. He could hear them grunting, hissing, roaring, and screeching as they closed in, ready to devour him on the spot.

  Any hope of reuniting with his family had evaporated. This was where he would die, he knew. He found solace in the fact that the man's creations would likely kill him before dragging his body back to the tent, so he wouldn't have to suffer the agony and humiliation of being transformed into one of his experiments, failed or not. A branch behind him snapped as one of the creatures' weight pulled it down while swinging after him. The bushes rattled with the impact as they trampled through them. A clawed hand swiped at the back of his neck, drawing blood. With a burst, an effort that nearly killed him, Bobby exploded from the cover of the trees, tripping over his own feet in the process. He cursed as he fell to the ground and quickly covered his head with his arms, bringing his knees to his chest, ready to be torn to shreds.

  Nothing happened. After a few seconds, he dared to let his eyes open, searching for the reason he was still breathing.

  The beasts had stopped just beneath the final tree between the tent and the open field. They stared out at him, their faces indifferent. The Minotaur's body flexed as he breathed hard. The man-tiger looked out at the circus, uninterested, its tail lolling lazily behind it, as if it hadn't just partaken in a race to the death. They stood only a few feet away from where he'd fallen, yet made no move to advance.

  The trees. They can't leave the woods, or they'll risk being seen. That's gotta be it. As if they could read his thoughts, the monsters slowly began to dissipate into nothing, as their forms disappeared back into the trees, and soon, Bobby was alone in the field once again, far from the tent that'd very nearly cost him his life.

  He stood and ran back toward the flashing lights, the screaming children, the parents that couldn't wait to get home, and his own parents, wondering why he'd left their side in the first place.

  He dashed the length to the circus as quickly as he could, running through the crowds, dodging passersby and carnies, alike (My God, are they in on it, too?).

  In front of the original freak show tent, the one whose authenticity had proved unworthy, Bobby's parents waited for him, hands extending from their brows as they scanned the crowd for him. He arrived at a full sprint, nearly crashing into them. Robert steadied him, grabbing him by the shoulders and staring into his eyes as he stammered away, uselessly.

  “Bobby?” he asked loudly, trying to put an end to his incessant and nonsensical gibberish. “Bobby! What's wrong, son!?”

  His mother began yelling for help, but Bobby had no idea why. Slowly, and much too late, it occurred to him that he was falling to the ground, his vision fading to black.

  When he awoke the next morning, Bobby stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, wondering how he'd gotten there. His head hurt something awful and though he could tell by the sun's position through his window that it was early morning, he felt as if he'd been sleeping for days. The events of the dream he'd had the night before came back to him as he sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  He immediately remembered that what he’d experienced had been no dream. The pain in the back of his neck where he’d been scratched, his legs, aching from the effort it’d taken to literally run for his life; that was all still there.

  Throwing the blankets off, he ran out of his bedroom and down to the kitchen. He knew his parents would be up, early risers that they were. I don't even remember coming home. What the hell happened last night? All I can remember are those things. His parents were there, just as he'd thought; he wasn't, however, expecting an officer of the law to be sharing their dining room table with them.

  All three of them stood upon his appearance. They stared at him, carefully.

  “Bobby,” his father started, slowly. “Good to see you up, son. Why don't you come sit down with us for a second? Officer...?”

  “Franklin, Sir,” the man in the uniform supplied with a small smile.

  “Yes, Officer Franklin. We flagged him down at the circus last night and told him everything you told us. He just wants to ask you a few questions.” Robert nodded his head toward the officer so he knew to take the floor.

  The man in blue smiled. “I’m not going to full-on interrogate you or anything, sport. Just want some details, that’s all. How are you feeling?”

  “Uhh...” He didn't know how to answer. He didn't know how much he'd divulged the night before, but the fact that this man was staring at him so intently made his courage waver just a tad. “I'm okay. Thank you.”

  “Good, that's good. I'm just here to ask you a few follow-up questions. Your parents called the station last night and told us of some pretty serious accusations you made before you fainted.”

  That's what happened. No wonder I can't remember a Goddamn thing.

  “You mind reiterating some of what you told them last night, anything you can remember before losing consciousness?”

  Bobby knew that telling him wouldn't be the problem. Being able to claim his sanity as his own afterward was a completely different story. He looked to both pare
nts, who nodded at him, telling him to go on, this man could be trusted. And so, he spilled the beans.

  Bobby told Officer Franklin about how he'd wandered away from the main attractions, walked toward the woods and saw the glow of the tent through the trees. He painstakingly remembered the images that greeted him once walking through its entrance; the sights he'd seen, the amount of death that awaited him; about the man having sex with a woman's carcass, whose head he'd replaced with that of a barn animal. Lastly, he reiterated the chase through the woods, unrelenting in his recollection of the events and the exact nature of the beasts he'd been running from.

  Once he was finished, Officer Franklin put the cap back on his pen. He looked down at the notes he’d taken during Bobby's rambling. Nodding his head assuredly, he shut the small notepad and looked to both of Bobby's parents, his face grim.

  “Do you two mind if I talk to Bobby alone?” he asked, his blue eyes unwavering. “I just need to ask him a few more questions.”

  Though they looked unhappy at the thought of leaving him, they did as asked. The two of them stood and made their way to the backyard. Officer Franklin stared a hole through Bobby, smiling, calm, and smug. He scratched his head vigorously, the fifth or sixth time he'd done so since Bobby'd arrived in the kitchen. It wasn’t becoming of a police officer, but Bobby didn’t say a word.

  “Son,” he started, leaning forward and speaking in a low voice. “I'm only going to say this once. I was your age once. I get it, man. Your parents drag you out of the house because you're grounded, and you retaliate by wandering off into the woods and smoking a little somethin'-somethin', right? I've been there before, my friend. My folks were horrible people, kept me sheltered my whole life. But, guess what? I never went dragging the police into anything that could be traced back to a bad trip. None of what you're telling me makes a lick of Goddamn sense, and you know that just as well as I do.”

  “I'm going to get out of here. Later on I’ll give your parents a call saying that I investigated and everything looks fine. But all I’m going to do is go back to the station and forget this little conversation ever happened, all right? For your benefit.”

  Officer Franklin scratched his head again and wiped a light sheen of sweat from his forehead, though the central air in the house was set at 65 degrees year round. “Are we crystal clear on all of this, Bobby?”

  “Uhh, no,” Bobby answered, his confusion turning to anger. “I didn't go out to those woods to get high. You can give me a drug test, right now. I'll consent. What I saw, everything I just told you I saw, is one hundred percent true. I didn't embellish anything. If you would just ride out to that tent–”

  “Impossible, even if I wanted to. They packed up late last night and were gone this morning. Headed for another show in another town. No can do. Not my problem anymore.”

  “And you're telling me you don't find that the least bit Goddamn suspicious?!”

  “Son, listen real close.”

  The cop leaned in close across the circular table. His breath reeked of scotch, though the clock on the wall said it was barely 7:30.

  “I'm getting out of here. Get sassy with me one more time or waste my time with any more of this bullshit, or even think about calling the station, your ass will be in juvie by the end of the day for obstructing justice. Like I said, I don't got time for your bullshit.”

  He stood up, hitching his belt.

  “Now, tell your folks I said to have a good day. You do the same, boy, and mind you watch how you're spending your time. And where, for that matter.” With that, Officer Franklin turned around and was out the front door before Bobby could say another word.

  He sat there, dumbfounded. He couldn't believe the officer had just played him like a fool.

  It took a lot of guts for me to tell him all of that and he's going to laugh in my face and call me a doped up liar? He’s going to threaten me? Juvie or not, I’m going to give that bastard a piece of my mind.

  Kicking the wicker chair from beneath him, he stormed to the front door, opening it to hurl insults at the officer, but what he saw stopped him cold.

  The man who’d just interrogated him had his driver's side door open, one foot on the pavement and one inside the car, staring ahead. He reached up and pulled at his black, combed hair, hard as he could, before it finally came off. It'd been a wig the whole time. The hair beneath it was a bright cherry red. He shook it out and ran his hands through it after throwing the wig inside, happy to be free of its stifling constrictions and the constant sweat it'd caused.

  Bobby watched as the man started the cruiser and drove off down the street, a yellow and red polka-dotted sleeve hanging out of the trunk.

  The End.

  YEAR OF THE SPIDERS by DJ Tyrer

  “Have you noticed the bushes?”

  I looked at Janet. “I was aware they were there.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, say what you mean, then,” I told her.

  “Look around you, Sam,” she said, gesturing about us. We were walking down the gentle slope that led from the block of flats where we lived to the car park between the hedged banks that lined the way.

  I did as she had asked and looked at the bushes on either side of us. “Well?”

  She groaned and asked me if I was blind. “I’m talking about the webs. See, the bushes are covered in them.”

  “Oh, you’re right,” I exclaimed. The bushes were festooned with layer upon layer of spider webs beaded with the morning dew that practically tented them. Blindingly obvious now, they were easily overlooked by the inattentive, as I’d been, as there were often webs in the bushes, only not to this extent. It was quite phenomenal and must have been the work of dozens and dozens of spiders. “They’re absolutely covered in them.”

  “I don’t like them; not so many, I mean,” she told me. “Individual webs can be beautiful with dew on them like tiny jewels; you know, proper webs, not these ones – these are like nets.” She was right: the webs that covered the bushes lacked the definition of the smaller, circular webs that had been more evident in the past, being more extensive, more interwoven and somewhat ragged or unkempt in appearance.

  I paused to look at one of the more heavily choked bushes. There was no sign of any spiders on the surface of the webbing, possibly they had no liking for the damp, but I thought I could discern some movement within the depths of the bush.

  “Well,” I replied, “as long as they stick to their bushes and don’t come inside, I’m not bothered.”

  I should’ve been.

  “Did you hear about Mr. Schmidt?” Janet asked a couple of days later as I came in the door.

  “No. Yum, that smells good.”

  “It’s goulash; I thought I’d try a new recipe.”

  “Well, if it tastes half as good as it smells, it’ll be great. You said something about Mr. Schmidt?” He lived in the next block and would often be seen shuffling around paying court to the local cat population.

  “Yeah, he’s in hospital.”

  “Oh, the poor guy. What happened?” He was what people call a ‘character’ – a bit odd, but likeable.

  “Heart attack. Sally found him out the back. He’s in a real bad way.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Conversation turned to our days at work and we put the man’s misfortune aside. He died about a week later, but, by then, we had other things on our minds.

  “That’s the third spider today,” Janet complained on Saturday. “It’s as if a new one appears to take the place of each one. I kill; you never see two at the same time.”

  The spiders were becoming a nuisance. To be honest, I’m a bit of an arachnophobe and would much prefer not to see them. Although she wasn’t scared of spiders as such, Janet wasn’t too keen to have so many around, particularly when they weren’t the regular house spider sort. They weren’t huge, but had fairly bulbous grey bodies and the long legs and obvious fangs of a wolf-spider, making them unpleasant to spot scuttling p
ast. They were also big and squishy enough to make a nasty mess when you squashed them.

  “They look like the sort in the bushes, the ones that span all that web.”

  “But, how are they getting in? Dammit, this one’s made a real mess of the carpet!”

  “They must already have been inside before we sprayed that Spider Stop around; I swear we’ve done every way in. I’ll order a couple of spider traps online, see if they do any good.”

  “I just wish they’d stay outside.”

  “Well, so do I. I guess they prefer being out of the elements.”

  “I suppose, really, we’re being nasty,” she sighed.

  “Speak for yourself!”

  “I mean, they eat all the nasty bugs and things. They’re doing us a favour, if you think about it.”

  “I really don’t care about that! If they do it discreetly, when I’m not looking, great, but otherwise I’d take flies and things over them any day.”

  She laughed. “I’ll ask you again when they’re buzzing all around your food this summer.”

  “Nah, I’d still take the flies – they don’t freak me out like these things do. Oh, man, look, there’s another one! Get it! Get it!”

  She tried to get it with the spray, but it got under the sideboard, seemingly unaffected. It scuttled out a moment later and she got it with her shoe.

  “Thanks!”

  “Let’s hope it’s the last one.”

  It wasn’t. Although they didn’t appear quite so frequently, they remained a ubiquitous presence despite my assiduous application of Spider Stop to every ingress I could think of. Our neighbours were also complaining about them.