Horror Stories Part 21

Jim Bob flew into a rage. He hit her in the face with the chisel, over and over, cheekbones snapping and jaw cracking. The vampire shook like unholy h.e.l.l, but that just fueled his fury.

G.o.dd.a.m.n women. Can't trust any of them. Even the undead ones.

"Jim Bob..."

Jim Bob didn't pay the boys no mind. He switched his grip on the chisel and began to stab the vampire with it, putting out one of the b.i.t.c.h's eyes with a slurpy pop, then the other.

"Jesus, Jim Bob!"

Someone, maybe it was Zeke, tried to pull him off. But Jim Bob wouldn't budge. After he'd turned the vampire's face into Spaghetti-O's, he began to stab at her chest, puncturing the chisel through her rib cage, driving it into her heart all the way up to the wood handle.

"Holy s.h.i.+t," Billy said.

The vampire began to smoke, her skin cracking and splitting open, exposing red, raw muscle and rotting organs. There was sizzling and snapping and a terrible odor like wet, burning dog.

"Stop it, Jim Bob!"

And then something hit Jim Bob in the back of the head and he was out.

"Look. He's waking up."

Jim Bob sensed people in the room with him. Without opening his eyes, he knew it was Freddie, Zeke, and Billy.

He could smell them.

His memory was hazy, but Jim Bob knew one thing for certain; I've never felt so good.

His shoulder, which had bothered him every single day since he dislocated it ten years ago hauling bags of cement, didn't hurt at all. He wiggled his big toe, which had an ingrown nail so full of puss it was nearly double the size, but there was no pain.

He felt fan-f.u.c.king-tastic.

There was only one problem; he couldn't seem to move his arms.

"Jim Bob? You awake?"

Jim Bob opened his eyes and stared his friends standing around his bed. It seemed to be very bright in his room, even though the only light was the forty watt lamp on the dresser.

"Do you understand me, Jim Bob?"

Jim Bob tried to say Of course I understand you, you idiot, but nothing came out of his mouth.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n," Zeke said. "He doesn't understand a d.a.m.n word."

Billy leaned in close. "Do you remember what happened, Jim Bob? You were killing that vampire b.i.t.c.h, and the Freddie hit you on the head with that mallet..."

"Sorry, man." Freddie shrugged his shoulders. "But you were destroying the best piece of a.s.s I ever had."

Billy shook his head sadly. "Problem was, he hit you too hard."

"My bad," said Freddie.

Jim Bob tried to ask a question, but his lips moved in silence.

"You died, Jim Bob. But since that vampire girl bit you on the p.e.c.k.e.r, we figured we should keep an eye on you, case you came back. And you did."

Zeke smiled. "You should see yourself, Jim Bob. You got teeth longer than my German Shepherd, Harley. I'd hold up a mirror to show you, but it probably wouldn't do nuthin'."

A vampire? Jim Bob thought. This is crazy.

But then he touched his tongue to his teeth and felt the sharp points.

Holy s.h.i.+t! I'm a vampire. That must be the reason I can't talk - I'm dead, and there's no G.o.dd.a.m.n air in my lungs.

"Sorry we had to tie you up," Billy said. "But we didn't know what else to do. You...uh...want some of this blood?"

Billy held up a plump unit of plasma, one of the packs Jim Bob had bought from Jesse Miller at the hospital.

Jim Bob's mouth instantly filled with drool. He craned his neck toward the blood, licking his lips, trying to reach it. Never before had he been so hungry. He had to have that blood. Hadtohadtohadtohadto...

"d.a.m.n!" Zeke said. "Will you lookit that! I think he wants it!"

"Give it to him, Billy." Freddie nudged him.

Zeke held up a hand. "Hold on, wait a second."

"Give it to him. He's our friend."

"He ain't our friend no more. He's a G.o.dd.a.m.n monster. Look at him, snapping and s...o...b..ring."

Gimmeegimmeegimmeegimmee! I need that blood!

"So what should we do?" Billy asked. "Kill him?"

Zeke grinned, rubbing his goatee. "I got me a better idea. Jim Bob may not have big old t.i.tties, but I bet he'll be pretty good just the same."

Zeke picked up the mallet and chisel. Billy smiled, unzipping his pants.

"I got first this time!"

Jim Bob opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

Flash fiction, a little slice-of-life tale that I posted on my website as a freebie.

Something is in my ear.

It crawled in when I was sleeping. Really deep. I can feel it tickle against the side of my brain.

I tried to kill it with a sharp pencil.

There was a lot of blood. But it didn't come out.

I stuck some pliers in my ear, to pull it out.

But it went in deeper.

Then it started to talk to me.

It didn't sound like words, not at first. More like chirping.

Kind of like a cricket.

But if I concentrated real hard, I could understand.

He says his name is Markey.

Markey talks to me all the time. He tells me he understands me. He knows that I'm different.

Markey says we're going to be famous one day.

He wants me to kill a little girl.

I don't want to. Killing is bad. I tried to get Markey out of my ear by banging my head into the wall, over and over.

Markey didn't like that. He made me hold my hand over the stove burner as punishment.

It hurt a lot, and I had to go to the hospital for a while. The doctors were very nice. They asked me what happened.

I told them it was an accident.

I didn't tell them about Markey.

When my hand got better, Markey was nicer to me.

For a while.

Then he started talking about killing again.

He said I should bring a little girl back to my bas.e.m.e.nt and do mean things to her with a hammer.

Markey said it won't be much different than all the cats he's made me kill. Except this will be even more fun.

Markey has made me kill a lot of cats.

I have a table in my bas.e.m.e.nt with straps on it. The straps are strong, so the little girl won't get away when I'm putting the nails in her head.

I drive a school bus.

It would be easy to grab a little girl.

Better than cats, Markey said.

I was so alone before Markey crawled into my ear.

He's my best friend.

I'll grab the little b.i.t.c.h tomorrow.

Another EC Comics inspired tale that I wrote in my younger days. I polished it a decade later for an anthology that never came out, so instead I printed up copies as chapbooks and gave them away for free at horror conventions.

Dominick Pataglia tried to block out the screaming coming from the Punishment Room, but the ceiling mounted speakers were at maximum volume.

The screams came at regular intervals - animal cries, sharp and shrill, only identifiable as human because they were punctuated with pleas for mercy.

Mercy was not known here.

Dominick clamped his fists over his ears, but the terrible sound penetrated the flesh and bone of his hands. From the creaking noise that underscored the screaming, Dominick guessed they were using the screws; wooden clamps, tightened on joints until the bones almost cracked.

Sometimes bones did crack, causing political bedlam in the form of inquiries and written protestations from sympathy groups.

This usually resulted in a sharp fine.

The Law plainly stated that the punishment couldn't inflict permanent damage. The Government was a stickler on that. It interfered with the education process.

Another scream, like a pig being butchered. Dominick squeezed his eyes shut. He had felt the screws before, and other things that were even more horrible.

Dominick had been a guest of the Punishment Room three times since he came here. Each time it had gotten worse.

His first visit had been just after he arrived. Two men in hoods and uniforms grabbed him before he'd even gotten off the bus. They dragged him to the Waiting Room and locked him in, confused and afraid.

There were no windows in the Waiting Room, no furniture, and the floor was cold, gray concrete. It had a sharp, acrid odor, beneath the scent of antiseptic. Dominick would later identify it as the smell of fear.

On the walls of the Waiting Room, tacked up in ranks and files and covering every inch of s.p.a.ce, were photographs.

Pictures of people being tortured.

Thousands of photos, thousands of faces, each depicting a moment of grotesque agony.

Dominick opened his eyes and they locked onto a picture of himself. He looked so young in the picture, even in the grip of agony. It was taken only a few months ago.

They had used the rack the first time.

He hadn't done anything to warrant it. It was just to get him acquainted with the way things were done here.

He had screamed until his voice gave out.

That was what seemed to be happening to his comrade in the Punishment Room. The screams were becoming hoa.r.s.er. Not because the pain was lessening, but because he had been in there for over an hour. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Dominick let his eyes wander around the room until he saw the photo of the second time he'd visited the Punishment Room. For talking to an instructor out of turn. Dominick couldn't even remember what he had said to him.