Ruthles: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection Part 5

"Shoot," she muttered, watching as the root vegetable soaked up the crimson droplets of blood, staining itself a light shade of red. It was the only onion she had purchased and she did not have time to run to the grocery store to replace it. Her company would be arriving in less than an hour for her annual Halloween dinner party.

The ghoulish goulash was baking in the oven, the Van Helsing Bread, with extra garlic and chives, was b.u.t.tered and ready to be warmed, and a nice blood red burgundy wine was chilling in an ice bucket on the well-dressed, festive table. All that was left to finish was her pumpkin soup, the traditional opening course to her Halloween meal.

She glanced at the clock above her stove again. Fifty-three minutes until her five costumed friends would be knocking on the door, hungry and ready to be fed. She hurried to the bathroom and grabbed a small box of bandages to dress her shallow cut.

Back in the kitchen, she fished a saute pan out of a cupboard and set in on the stove at medium heat. She measured out two tablespoons of imported Italian extra virgin olive oil and one tablespoon of b.u.t.ter and tossed them into the pan. When the b.u.t.ter melted, she sc.r.a.ped the blood-tinted onion into the fat. The diced vegetable sizzled, the red seeping into the oil.

n.o.body will ever know, she thought, as she stirred the onion mixture with a flat-tipped wooden spoon. She turned her attention to the half a pound of russet potatoes she had peeled earlier and soaked in cold water. She made quick work of dicing them, and then tossed them in with the onions to brown in the oil.

She pulled out a standing cheese grater and placed it over a bowl, picked up one large chunk of pumpkin and rubbed it against the sharp, stainless steel teeth of the grater. She moved her hand up and down faster, hurried.

Her hand slipped and her knuckled collided with the metal grater. Layers of skin sliced off of her fingers until the tip of her bone was exposed at the joint of her middle finger.

Blood flowed freely down her hand and dripped all over the cutting board and the counter, dressing the grated pumpkin resting in the bowl. It reminded her of raspberry vinaigrette. She grabbed an orange dish towel and wrapped it around her hand, the blood soaking through almost immediately.

Another glance at the clock told her she had forty minutes before dinner was scheduled to be served. She was usually good in the kitchen, at ease working with the dangerous equipment.

Determined to serve dinner on time, she tied the orange towel around her hand and began grating the pumpkin again. When she was finished, she threw the grated orange fruit into the saute pan, stirring to coat it with oil and b.u.t.ter.

She saw thin, translucent slivers of skin shrivel as they fried in the oil, eventually disappearing into the pungent mixture.

n.o.body will ever know, she reminded herself.

She put a large stock pot on the stove and fetched a quart of whole milk and a pint of heavy cream from the refrigerator. She popped the lid off a large can of chicken broth and dumped it into the stock pot, then added the sauteed mixture to the broth and stirred well.

She dipped a spoon into the liquid and tasted it, added a couple of pinches of sea salt and some fresh ground black pepper to the broth, then tasted it again.

It was missing something.

As she lowered her spoon into the soup a third time a trickle of blood that had escaped saturation by the b.l.o.o.d.y towel s.h.i.+mmied down her finger and splashed into the soup. The red droplet disappeared into the simmering liquid.

She was surprised to note the soup tasted better.

She turned the heat down to low and stirred in two and a half cups of milk and half a cup of cream. She needed to whisk the soup constantly as it came up to temperature. It could not boil or it would separate into an oily disaster.

She felt something wet trail out of her nose and over her upper lip. Her tongue flicked out, lapping up the offending moisture.

Blood.

The air was too dry for October, and the lack of moisture gave Kaylee daily nosebleeds. She scrunched her nose up in an effort to control the bleeding, but it streamed more heavily out of her left nostril.

She lifted the b.l.o.o.d.y towel to her nose to quell the flow of blood, but it was coming out too quickly, too fast, the towel already saturated with the sticky red fluid.

Blood rained into the soup, the light golden color of the cream mixture exploding into brilliant hues of red.

Fascinated, Kaylee continued to whisk, watching as the crimson blood drops swirled and played in the creamy pumpkin soup. She threw the towel into the sink and gripped the whisk with her injured hand, the glint of white bone catching her eye as she flexed and twisted her middle finger.

She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the reddish, creamy concoction. Her eyes drifted shut as she tasted the soup. It was rich and succulent, by far the best she had ever cooked. It still needed a little something. More blood, maybe.

Her guests would be eating the soup in less than half an hour. She had to finish up soon.

Grabbing the knife from the cutting board, she ran the tip of it over the soft flesh of her wrist, suddenly slas.h.i.+ng down until blood spewed from the cut. She held her wrist over the pot, siphoning all of the blood into the soup and whisking it in, then tasted. Better. Saltier and earthier.

It needed texture, she thought to herself suddenly. She opened up a drawer and pulled out the kitchen shears. She held the tips of her long, brown hair over the pot and snipped, the dried ends falling into soup.

It was not enough. It was not perfect.

Frantically, she picked up the cheese grater and held it over the pot. Leaning over, she put her freckled and flushed cheek against the metal teeth and moved her face up and down against the grate.

She screamed, chunks of her flesh falling into the soup. Blood sprayed the counter, the spatter making twisted and macabre trails down the white wall behind the stove. She pressed her face harder against the grater, grinding against it until she heard bone hit the stainless steel.

She looked into the soup. Grotesque blobs of flesh floated atop the ruddy liquid. She whisked the globs into the soup, then tasted it again.

Almost there. So close. Her guests would beg to know the secret ingredient, what she had added this year that had given the soup such depth and flavor. But she would not tell. They would never find out. It was her Halloween trick-or-treat.

More texture, she decided.

She cracked her front tooth against the edge of the counter, then reached into her mouth. It was loose. Pinching it between her index finger and thumb, she jostled it back and forth, trying to force it out. She could hear squis.h.i.+ng noises as the air and the blood seeped out of her swollen gum.

With a hard yank, the tooth was free. She put it in a small zip-lock plastic baggy and set it on the cutting board. Picking up her cast iron skillet, she hammered down on the tooth, smas.h.i.+ng it over and over into tiny chunks. She opened up the bag and dumped the small particles in to the soup pot.

Her large Cuisinart blender was sitting on the countertop, plugged in to an electrical outlet. The final step in preparing the soup was to blend it until it was smooth and creamy.

She ladled half of the soup into the blender and turned it on, gently pressing down on the pulse/ice crush b.u.t.ton and watching the soup whirl around in the small appliance.

She poured the pureed soup into a mixing bowl and then added the last of the chunky mixture into the blender. The appliance whizzed to life as she pressed the pulse b.u.t.ton again. She took the lid off of the blender and put her injured hand into the piping hot liquid, pressing it down as far as she could against the razor sharp blades.

The blender was switched to the low setting, its blades roaring to constant action. Kaylee shrieked in ecstatic agony as the machine pulverized her tender flesh.

She removed her minced hand and turned the machine off. With her uninjured hand, she poured the fleshy puree back into the stock pot, and then added the contents of the mixing bowl. She turned the heat up to high.

Kaylee opened up the crisper drawer in her refrigerator and removed a bunch of fresh parsley. She laid it on the cutting board and hacked at it with her good hand. Fresh parsley was the perfect herbaceous garnish to pumpkin soup. It added freshness and color.

The soup was steaming, coming up to temperature. She dumped the hastily chopped parsley in to the soup and gently folded it in with a large wooden spoon.

Five minutes until dinner.

She leaned closer to the pot, inhaling deeply. It smelled delicious. Her head sank further into the pot, her nose almost touching the liquid.

Her tongue gingerly stuck out to taste the soup. It burned, singing her taste buds.

She lowered her nose and mouth into the soup. It was blistering hot, the creamy liquid boiling her skin. Desperate for breath, she sucked in, the scalding liquid scorching her nasal pa.s.sage and shooting down her esophagus into her lungs.

Her knees gave out. The pumpkin soup was infusing all of her senses, was all she could taste, see, hear, smell, touch. It was all around her, all consuming.

Her last thought before she slumped to the floor in a dead heap was the soup could have used a pinch of nutmeg.

True Love.

by Shane McKenzie.

She opened her eyes, taking in gulps of air. The sound of applause filled her ears as she gained consciousness.

Where am I? What's going on?

Amy tried to stand up, but the straps on her arms and legs held her in place. She rocked in the chair but couldn't move.

A full audience sat to her left, all wearing strange masks. They clapped their hands as she struggled. The white, expressionless masks gave them a ghostly look. As her mind became less groggy, she noticed that she wore no clothing. She could feel the eyes on her bare flesh and wanted to scream. As she thrashed in her chair, the audience grew more excited.

A loud click came from above, followed by a blinding light. Two spotlights. .h.i.t the stage. Amy squinted as the light shone on another person sitting across from her.

"Andrew?" she said, staring at her fiance. He sat naked and bound to his chair. He met eyes with his lover, strapped and bare in front of him.

"A-amy?" he said with a look of disgust, "What the f.u.c.k is going on?"

"I don't know. I just woke up here."

He struggled with his restraints, every muscle in his body bulging as he twisted and thrashed.

The audience grew quiet as they stared at the exposed couple.

The squeak of a rusty wheel became audible above the sound of shuffling feet. A small person walked toward them, his face covered by, what looked like, an executioners mask. He pulled along a wagon, metal instruments piled into it. Stopping in front of the couple, he dropped the wagon handle to the floor. Amy thought he might be a child until he got closer, his proportions giving him away. He stood in front of them, glancing back and forth between the two.

"We shall begin," said a voice from above, booming through the room. The audience responded with loud applause.

Amy looked at Andrew, his eyes scanning their surroundings. He continued his attempt to escape, the veins in his neck bulging. Warm tears ran down her cheeks as she watched her one true love acting in desperation.

"Baby, it's gonna be alright."

"Let us the f.u.c.k out of here!" he screamed, spittle flying from his lips.

"Amy," said the voice from above, "Do you love Andrew?"

She looked all around, trying to find the source of the voice. The audience sat still, awaiting her answer. The mini-executioner stood his ground, still as a statue.

"With all of my heart."

Mumbling came from the audience as they whispered to each other.

"And Andrew," said the voice, "Do you love Amy?"

"f.u.c.k you!"

The midget knelt to his wagon and revealed a scalpel, the metal s.h.i.+ning in the spotlight. He took a step toward Amy, and with no hesitation, pressed the cold metal into her flesh. She screamed as the blade dragged downward, slicing open her shoulder. Blood poured from the wound, crooked red lines running down her arm.

"Stop!" yelled Andrew, "please, I'll do anything, just don't hurt her."

"Andrew, do you love Amy?"

"I love her more than I've ever loved anyone." Tears and mucus ran down his face.

Amy felt a strong love for Andrew as she watched him weep in his chair. n.o.body she had ever met could make her feel the way he did. She wanted to kiss him, hold him to her bosom, and tell him how much she loved him.

"Good Andrew, I knew you would come around," said the voice. "We brought you here to put that very love to the test, to see how much about each other you truly know."

The audience began clapping again, their antic.i.p.ation bursting for the game ahead. Amy watched as they whispered to each other. Her shoulder stung and spewed blood.

"Andrew, what is Amy's middle name?"

Amy knew he wouldn't cooperate with this game so easily. His stubbornness defined him.

"Let us go right f.u.c.king now!" he yelled, "I'll f.u.c.king kill you!"

The midget reached into his wagon and waddled toward Amy. He held a pair of pliers to her breast, squeezing the flesh of the dark nipple. She screamed, staring down at her chest, then back at Andrew. The executioner held the tool in place, awaiting Andrew's cooperation.

"Okay, G.o.d d.a.m.n it," said Andrew. "It's Catherine. Her f.u.c.king middle name is Catherine."

"Correct," said the voice. "Now you're getting the idea."

The audience exploded into applause.

The midget dropped the pliers back into the wagon and stood by, awaiting the next question.

Amy's pulse quickened as she waited for her turn. Andrew never told her his middle name, always felt embarra.s.sed by it. That G.o.d d.a.m.ned stubbornness was going to cost him now.

"Amy, what is Andrew's middle name?"

She sat in silence, staring at him. She cursed him for not trusting her. The executioner grabbed a hammer from his wagon of weapons, looking back toward Amy.

"I-I don't know."

Andrew stared at her as if she should have known. His eyes grew wide as the midget marched toward him.

"Leave him alone!"

The executioner raised the hammer above his head. Andrew strained against the straps. The hammer slammed down onto his big toe, splitting the nail and skin. Andrew let out an agonizing scream. Amy choked as she watched, the audience cheering in the background.

Blood oozed from the toe as the midget did the same to the other foot. Andrew responded with more thras.h.i.+ng, screaming in pain. Amy saw the leather of the straps tightening around his arms and legs as he struggled.

"Now you see how our little game works," said the voice. "A wrong answer leads to unfortunate punishment."

Amy stared at Andrew, blood pooling around his feet. He breathed in deep gasps, his hair wet and drooping over his face.