Of Snakes and Banjos (Horror stories)

It wasn't like he'd meant to kick her as he came round the corner. Anyway, it wasn't really a kick, more like a bit of a bump. No, a nudge, that's what it was, just a nudge. After all, sitting on the pavement like that, it's her own fault really if people end up nudging her. She'd sat there as long as he could remember – way back into his childhood – the same short grey hair, wrinkled face, shapeless clothes, sitting cross-legged on that grimy old blanket just outside the station. Blind eyes closed – well, he assumed she was blind, he'd certainly never seen her open her eyes. But come to that he'd never seen her stand or move either, and surely she must get up sometime and go somewhere. She couldn't stay sitting there all the time with that weird old banjo,could she? Snakeskin – he'd never seen another one anything like it. She didn't really play it, even, just plucked the strings in a desultory sort of fashion – and he'd never seen anyone throw her money for her efforts. Made him wonder why she sat there day after day. He'd apologized when he knocked her over – well, he'd meant to, but he was in such a rush that maybe he hadn't. She'd have been fine anyway – it was only a nudge after all, just a little nudge.
They used to make up stories about her back at school. She used to be a great beauty, but she was blinded by a jealous rival. Or maybe it was all an act – she was working for Them (whoever They were), keeping a watch on things, not really blind at all. Or she'd sold her soul to some devil or other, but got tricked (as tends to be the case with devils) and ended up with just a strange banjo and sightless eyes. He'd added his own – she wasn't human at all, the snakeskin was the giveaway. Didn't everyone know that snakes didn't need eyes to sense – they could feel vibrations, sense the heat of your body? She sat there waiting for prey and when night fell slipped away in serpent form through the drains, fangs dripping with venom so potent that it etched the stones it dripped upon. Now he came to think of it, they pretty much gave up on the stories after that one – they all just gave her a wide berth.
He was well down Nathan Road by now, crowd-weaving along through the usual masses of Hong Kong humanity, ducking past the tailors and the fake Rolex sellers as they lurked in the side streets like trap door spiders waiting for their tourist prey. He shuddered for no reason that he could put his finger on. The word 'prey' in his thoughts just seemed to flick a chill up his spine and his steps faltered for just a second or two. He shook it off and plunged into the human sea, crowd-swimming onwards to work.
It wasn't until work was over, standing waiting for the ferry, that he thought of her again. It might have been the setting sun colour-matching the neon as the light faded that brought her back to mind, thoughts of a snake in the darkness. But he stood packed into a press of people, safe in their midst, and the thought was only fleeting. As the scrum pored onto the ferry he made his way to his usual spot at the front where there was a slight breeze off the water cutting through the humidity. The lights of Kowloon ahead grew steadily closer and brighter, when he noticed the movement in the water. Parallel to the boat something kept pace with it, something long and narrow left a slight wake, caused ripples to wash against the side of the ferry. There was something there. Something long, thin, greenish in colour. His breathing speeded  as he craned his neck, trying to see more clearly, but the ripples and reflections thwarted him. The ferry bumped against the Kowloon jetty and he struggled to move as the rippling form drew closer and closer, but the crowd held him in place. It filled his vision, the sinuous form moving towards him. He became aware that he was holding his breath, gripping the railing so hard that his fingers hurt. Closer and closer it came, swaying side-to-side. Then out of the water it came, pulled hand-over-hand by a crewman – a green, sodden rope being hauled in, wound up, placed back on the deck where it belonged. He breathed again in a shuddering gasp and staggered off with the flow of the crowd.
The lights of Nathan Road glared as garish as ever, but somehow it seemed darker than usual tonight, the shadows between the streetlamps deeper and blacker. He scuttled from lamp-post to lamp-post. Why did nobody else seem to see it? They all seemed to be behaving as normal, even when a neon sign not ten yards from him flickered and went out; when the lamp he was under visibly dimmed, crackled and hummed. He walked faster, then faster still. What was that noise he just heard? It sounded like... a sort of slithering sound. His nerve snapped and he broke into a run, pushing people aside, until he nearly slipped over something at his feet, something that made a slithering sound as his foot struck it. He stared down wide-eyed and found himself looking at a dried squid. One of many. From an overturned crate at the side of the road where two men shouted at each other. He stopped, took a deep breath, willed himself to be calm. All in his head, all in his head. His pulse slowed, his breathing eased. He walked onward at a more normal pace.
Nearly home now, he looked over at the corner where he'd nudged the old woman this morning. Nobody there. She'd gone home of course – where else would she be at this time. He rounded the corner, opened his front door, stepped inside. Flicked the light on, closed the door behind him. Flung his jacket onto a chair, flung himself into another. Then all the lights went out – not just the lights in his flat, but the lights outside shining in through the windows. And somewhere in the darkness there was the smallest of sounds. It sounded like a banjo being softly plucked.


BIO: Originally a Londoner, now living in Devon, an intermittant writer for as long as I can remember, now finally making the effort to put fingers to keyboard on a more regular basis. An avid reader and appalling hoarder of books of many types

The Quarry (Horror stories)

Two hobos walked by the side of the road, both were thirty-five, unshaven, and wearing denim. One of them was wearing a red bandana. They were on the shoulder of the road and a truck flew by them; they made no attempt for a ride. They walked single file, the sun was beating down, and the men sweated. One of the hobos stopped and wiped his face with his shirt tail. He’d been in Vietnam and his life hadn’t gone that well since. He looked up into the sun. The second hobo waited for him, a pasture was all around them. The first hobo started to walk again, he walked a ways before the second one started again. The second one fell to the ground and didn’t move.
The first hobo saw lights in the distance and felt better. He kept walking; he didn’t know where Tyrone was. He was getting on his nerves anyhow so maybe it was better they split up. Every man for himself - he learned a long time ago. He was coming to a town. Once in town, he looked for the camp. There were around ten other hobos, and drifters and vagabonds around a couple of fire pits and some lean tos made out of scraps of wood, sheet metal and cardboard. He sat by a fire and another tramp handed him a cup of coffee. One or two of the men asked him questions, and one of the men asked him about his brother who he expected any day now. The hobo answered he travelled alone. The man said his brother wore a red bandana. The hobo wanted to change the subject and asked about work and a man told him about the orchards about a half mile away. The man told him women from the church came and wanted to have meetings. He said a preacher came one time but couldn’t get anyone to listen to him. The townspeople didn’t like them much so they stayed either in camp or at the orchard if there was work. He said there wasn’t any work right now but he hoped that would change soon. There were blankets to sleep with - the old and sick got the lean tos, and you could eat from the “pot” for five dollars a week otherwise you were on your own. A man played a guitar and the music made him wistful.
He heard a train whistle in the distance, he remembered the time he hopped a train from Oklahoma to Texas. He felt hungry but didn’t have five bucks. He thought he had something and went through his pockets and found three dollars. He gave it to the man who’d talked to him and he said he could eat for three nights. He went to where the man was cooking over a fire and he told him to take a cup. He picked up a battered tin cup from the table and the man filled it with stew. He said he could fill it one more time. The hobo went back to the fire, and tasted the stew, but it was too spicy so he dumped it back. That other man was there too and he asked him again about what road he came to town on, and talked about how his brother was travelling the same way, and the hobo figured he was talking about Tyrone, but didn’t let on. The other man watched him for a long time, and the hobo was silent.
The man said he talked to his brother the other night on the phone at the filling station, and he started whittling; he shaved the bark off a stick with menacing purpose. He told the hobo his name was Thomas and he was looking for his brother, Tyrone. He told the hobo he thought he was Tyrone because he came to camp at the same time he expected Tyrone. The hobo spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders; he felt Thomas’s distrust of him. Thomas played with the knife in his hands. The hobo had the idea to tell Thomas he’d passed a stiff on the road with a red bandana, but didn’t. He asked Thomas where the train ran and Thomas pointed. Thomas played with the knife. The hobo wanted to sleep but felt unsettled; Thomas was making him anxious. He thought again about telling him he passed a hobo with a red bandana, but realized that would only make him more distrustful.
He couldn’t go back; he had to stick to his story that he didn’t know who Tyrone was. He realized he had to move on; maybe in the morning he would hop a train and go anywhere away from Thomas. That the way it was for him when there were problems – he moved on. He loved Sandy and she broke his heart and he took to wandering. He enlisted for Vietnam to make her proud and she broke his heart. The music made him sorrowful. He worked and never begged from no one; he took pride in that, but didn’t like interacting with others; it was always hurtful somehow so he kept moving. There were kind people in the world and there were devils, and he was wounded by both. There was a time when he tried to figure that out, but he’d given up. He understood there was something wrong with him, but he didn’t hurt anyone else so he had nobility. Other hobos would talk to him about Jesus and he would walk away. He had moments when he stood by a lake or in the forest when he felt connected to something greater than himself, and that would calm him, and all he could figure was it must be God in some form or other. He almost killed himself a couple of times; once in Vietnam, and a couple of times after he got home. After Sandy betrayed him he got in a bar fight and was in the hospital for a month. He saw young couples and it reminded him of him and Sandy and he couldn’t free himself from that; the only thing was to keep searching, keep searching. Thomas was staring at him from across the fire. He wanted to sleep. He stood up and went and got a blanket. He found some thick grass and lay down and tried to sleep.
He felt the coolness on his face and heard voices. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was. He sat up. He saw the back of a man with a red bandana, and knew he had to get out. He grabbed his denim jacket and headed in the direction from where he’d heard the train whistle. Soon he was in some woods and stopped running. He found a path and walked on that until he came to the tracks. His stomach was empty. He walked the tracks until he found a mail drop and waited. He didn’t know where he was other than he was in Pennsylvania somewheres. He sat off the track and waited; the sun was beating down. He wondered when Tyrone came into camp. He fell asleep for how long he did not know.
He woke and from the sun knew it was mid-day. He thought he heard something in the woods and tilted his head to hear better. He heard something rustle, then, it was quiet. He pictured Thomas and Tyrone with knives drawn tracking him in the woods. He figured a train should come along anytime now. It was hot and bright. He thought he only had so much time before the brothers found him. He flinched when he saw a snake near him; he watched it slither away. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and his stomach ached.  He wanted some water. He looked up and saw birds circling in the sky, he felt light-headed and heard the babbling of water nearby. He stumbled when he stood up and looked for water. He found the stream and dropped to his knees and the stream disappeared. He was on his hands and knees looking at the ground. He heard the whistle, and told himself to get up. He got upright and went back to the tracks and saw the smoke of the train in the distance. After some more time, he heard the whistle, and saw the train in the distance. He watched the train as it got closer and closer, and it was slowing down to make the mail drop. He started to run along the side of the track. The engine went by him and he looked for an open door and the ladder to jump onto. He saw the open door and ran along with the ladder next to him until, instantly, the train disappeared. He stopped running and was panting. His senses were playing tricks with him and he was light-headed. He sat by the side of the track; sweat was on his face, and nothing was in focus. He needed food to get stronger; to be a hunter and not quarry

Fluff (Horror stories)

her bears impossible. Yet eventually I found it and I got to see the fluff again.
But dad caught me and hit me calling me a sick freak and a monster for doing that to one of my sisters toys. He said I was just as crazy as my psycho mother.
That’s when I figured out I couldn’t get my fluff from the house anymore. I had to get creative, so I would go out and scour the neighborhood for what I could find. Dad, beside that one time he caught me, couldn’t care less about me. It wasn’t easy but I’d find things: sometimes in the trash, sometimes in the forest. I would find them and cut them open and just marvel at how the fluff spilled out. I learned there were different kinds of fluff. Some was super light, and would get caught in the air and just fly away. Then again there was fluff that was heavy, that would drop down to the ground with a wet flop. But the most important thing was that I didn’t get caught and hit again.
One day I saw dad sitting by an empty crib. Apparently he took Isabel to the hospital and didn’t come back with her, like the time he didn’t come back with mom. He hung his head downward, perpetually rocking it back and forth like a pendulum counting down.
I didn’t care.
The only thing I cared about was finding more and more fluff.
But one day God spoke to me. He proposed to me a question that would completely change my life.
Does everything have fluff?
Yes God! Everything is filled with fluff, and that’s part of what makes it so amazing!
Does everything have fluff?
Yes God! But I already gave you the answer didn’t I?
Does everything have fluff?
I didn’t know how to answer that time, but then it struck me. Everything was filled with fluff! Which means so was Dad! Dad was filled with fluff too!
After the hospital Dad would just stay in bed when he wasn’t depressingly looming over the crib like it’s shadow. So I made my way up to his room. He was sleeping, or at least I think he was sleeping. The room reeked of the strong and overwhelming smell of alcohol and there was an empty white bottle in his hand.
I think he was sleeping.
He didn’t move when I opened him up.
It was like that time with the bear and me again, so uncertain of what to do with the knife. I poked him a bit and he didn’t move. He just kept sleeping there as still as the bear. His skin was much tougher than the others, so I had to lean my weight to get a bit of fluff to leak out. There was something special about those few small specks. It wasn’t like the others; it glistened in the way I imagined gems would. With the knife I stabbed into his belly determined to see more. It was like plunging into a heavy water balloon that didn’t pop. I lifted the knife forward, cutting upwards as more and more fluff spilled out.
The fluff was beautiful.
Dad’s fluff was the most beautiful I had ever seen!
It sparkled and shined like nothing ever seen before. I would take handfuls of it and toss it up in the air, where upon it separated and would flop down on top of me. It was so warm against my skin. This must be the touch of God! Dad’s fluff was so beautiful! I just kept playing and playing and playing until there was no fluff left in him.
But something was wrong.
Something was very wrong.
Dad’s fluff wouldn’t come off.
I tried rubbing it against the sheets, against the towels, against the carpet, but the fluff wouldn’t come off my hands. I panicked because this never happened before. I put my hands through the hottest water I could stand and rubbed.
I rubbed.
And I rubbed.
And I rubbed.
And I rubbed.
And I rubbed.
And I rubbed.
And I rubbed until I saw it.
I had fluff too!
I had the same beautiful fluff that Dad had!
This was what God was really trying to tell me!
That’s why the fluff wouldn’t come off, because God was trying to show me that I had fluff too. How could I have been so stupid this entire time!
With mom’s knife in my hand, the first knife I ever used, I plunged it into my stomach like I did with Dad and the bear. It hurt. It hurt so much and that was how I know it was working. It was the same pain Dad would give me; that God would give me. It was the pain that let me know this was the right thing to do!
I watched as the fluff poured out of me. It was amazing! I don’t even know how to describe it. It would be like trying to describe the beauty of song to the deaf. Oh how beautiful it was. How it shined and the floor and twinkled against the light. God was truly wonderful to gift something this beautiful inside me. Oh how beautiful the fluff was. My only regret was that I couldn’t see Mom’s fluff, I bet it would have been beautiful just like mine. I wondered if she would have also loved to see Dad’s fluff. Oh how I love fluff! It was the one thing in my life that made sense.

Joshua Flowers lives in Maine and after his first publication has become a much more serious and stoic man. He primarily deals with the art of horror and is currently working on multiple projects including NaNoWriMo and several short stories. Keep an eye out for the name Joshua Flowers

World's Best Zombie Slayer(Horror stories)

My name is Shawn Clyde, and if anyone is reading this, I'm already dead. I'm corpsified. Six feet under.
You get the idea.
Technically, I'll be laying in the bed I plan to be in when I swallow a few year's worth of pain pills, but it all amounts to the same thing. I know this may seem strange in such a time of renewed hope and opportunity as we now live in, but you see, that's kind of the problem.
I guess I'm not making a whole lot of sense. That's probably because I started at the end of my story. So let me try this again from the beginning.
My name is Shawn Clyde, and when the zombie apocalypse struck, I was ready. Don't for a second think I was some kind of badass or anything like that, at least not yet. No, I was just a nerd that still lived with his parents at twenty-four, but I had seen every zombie movie ever made. I'd seen every TV show, played every video game and read every book or comic ever created on the subject.
So when I was ordering a hot dog outside the stadium at a high school football game, and a guy came shuffling up with ripped clothes and grunting and started biting people, I was the only one that didn't panic. It was something I had always known was going to happen eventually. I ran away while everyone else moved in to help. As I pulled out of the parking lot in my beat-up old pickup, I saw the people that had been bitten turn on the ones that came to help them. It was a bloodbath.
Didn't these idiots know how this sort of thing worked?
I made a quick stop by the neighborhood grocery store and bought a couple carts full of canned goods. Sirens screamed in the distance when I was throwing the groceries into my vehicle. I hurried home and locked all the doors and windows. My dad was a gun nut, so I grabbed all the weapons I could find from their cabinets or shelves in the garage and loaded any that weren't already. I then placed them at key locations around the house. Next, I used the stack of old lumber in the basement to board the windows.
I was rather proud of myself. I already had a safe place to hide while everyone else was just starting to realize what was going on.
When I had done all of this, I realized it was a couple of hours past the time my parents normally got home. I felt sick. No, it was worse than that. Somehow I knew the zombies had got to them. It was devastating. I just sat in the living room and waited for hours.
It got dark outside, and I heard people screaming nearby. I peeked out a crack in one of the boarded windows and saw dozens of zombies shuffling down my street. The way they moved and their moaning and grunting was exactly what I'd always expected, but it scared the crap out of me anyway.
Right at that moment, something thumped against the front door to my house. The doorknob rattled, and then I heard a soft scratching sound. I crept slowly up to the door and peeked out the peephole. My mom and dad had finally come home.
But both of them were zombies.
I couldn't stand the thought of either of them leading lives as mindless undead, so I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed my dad's shotgun, threw the door open, and blew both their heads off. Then I closed the door and hid in the dark as other zombies tried to get inside, drawn by the sound of the shotgun blast. They broke the glass out of the windows and pried at the boards, and I'm pretty sure I pissed myself, but eventually they gave up and shuffled away.
The next day I made a run to the local hardware store for some supplies to better fortify my house. As I'd always suspected, the zombies were less active during the day. I still had to put a few down, but it was easier in the light of day. The zombies weren't smart, and they were so absurdly slow. I think that was when I started to enjoy killing them.
I knew I should be upset about my parents, and I was, but it had already started to fade. There just wasn't time to mourn loss in a zombie apocalypse. It sort of just came with the territory.
I grabbed the supplies and turned my house into an impenetrable fortress. I even built a little stand on the roof where I could snipe wandering zombies if I was in a sporting mood. Things continued this way for weeks. I added to my house's defenses, looted guns and ammo, stocked up an insane amount of food and killed a whole lot of zombies. It was great. I was the happiest I'd ever been.
I know what you're thinking. What kind of sick freak would be happy after so many people died? After our whole world ended? Well, the truth is I didn't think about it much. You see, I never had a place in the old world. I was an ugly, slightly overweight nerd with no friends. Even my parents thought I was a disappointment. Hardly a day went by that one of them didn't make a comment about me getting a job or going back to school. And the extended family was even worse. None of them realized constantly putting me down ensured I never had the self confidence to make something of myself.
Then the zombies came, and nobody was there anymore but me and them, and I finally discovered what I was good at: killing the shuffling freaks.
I soon began to think of myself as the world's greatest zombie slayer. Nobody could dispute it, so why not?
I killed hundreds just from my rooftop perch, but soon that wasn't enough. I had to find more creative ways to take them out. I once found a dump truck with plenty of gas in the tank and the keys still inside. I went on a little highway rampage, mowing the bastards down like weeds, and by my count, at one point I killed thirty zombies in about seventeen seconds.
That has to be some sort of record.
My best zombie kill ever was the old warehouse, however. I doused an abandoned warehouse with lighter fluid and gasoline, then ran around with an air horn attracting the attention of as many zombies as possible. I led hundreds of them into the warehouse, hid in a cubby by the door, and when an opportunity presented itself, I ran back outside and locked them in. It was then a simple matter to set the whole building ablaze and watch it burn down around them.
Classic.
I was in heaven. So how did I get from that point to where I am now, about to kill myself? I suppose anyone reading this knows the truth of the zombie apocalypse, so I guess the answer is fairly obvious.
It all went to hell when I was making a run to loot a downtown gun store. The street was more congested than I would have liked, so I crept across as silently as possible, taking a few of them out with a machete to the brain to avoid drawing undo attention. I found all kinds of good stuff inside, including a few grenades I couldn't wait to try out, so I filled my duffle bag quickly.
When I went back outside, a few dozen zombies had surrounded the entrance to the store. It seemed like a great time to use one of the grenades, so I fished one out of the bag and grabbed the pin.
At that moment, I heard a soft buzz in the distance. The zombies must have heard it too because they all turned toward it. The sound grew louder until I finally spotted the source: a small army of military choppers headed straight for us. It was so surprising, I could only watch them come motionlessly. I had been so sure everyone was dead. By the time I'd gotten around to checking the TV and the radio after the zombies came, all the stations were dead. It had seemed a safe assumption that everywhere else was affected too.
The choppers flew overhead. Small hatches dropped open in their bottoms and an orange gas poured out, raining down on us, on me. I tried to hold my breath, but when I finally gave in and inhaled the gas, it had no negative effect on me whatsoever.
I quickly turned my attention to the zombies, expecting to see them dying gruesome deaths. Surely the military had developed some kind of ultimate zombie-killing weapon . . . but no. No such luck. To my utter shock, the zombies started to get better when the gas flowed over them. The moaning stopped. They stood straighter. Intelligence slowly returned to their vacant eyes.
They became human again.
The gas was no weapon; it was a cure.
I fell to my knees in the street, my weapons forgotten. A sense of the most complete helplessness washed over me. I watched a couple of people that apparently knew each other embrace, crying into one another's shoulder. I realized they had never been zombies at all. Not really. Just sick people.
It was that moment when the guilt hit me. I thought of shooting the zombies from my rooftop. I thought of the dump truck rampage; thirty zombies in seventeen seconds? Dear God, what had I done? I thought of the warehouse burning with hundreds inside. I thought of my parents.
Tears poured from my burning eyes. My world was shattered as everyone around me rediscovered theirs.
The world had changed again, just like that, and once again I didn't belong.
So that's my story, and why I felt compelled to end it. I hope you don't think too little of me. I didn't know what I was doing, though even as I write the words, I know it's a poor excuse. So here's one last kill for the world's greatest zombie slayer.
I'm not a zombie, of course. But none of the others were either.

END

BIO: Paul Miller lives in Texas with his beautiful wife and three small children and writes in what little free time he can find. His stories have appeared in various online and print publications, including Every Day Fiction and Title Goes Here:. Check him out at paulmillerfiction.wordpress.com to find links to his other work

Cannibalistic Freaks (Horror stories)

Running foot claps echoed off the frost covered asphalt; she was rapidly panting for breath--covered in blood spatter. Her thin arms rested on her upper thighs, preparing to regurgitate from the absolute horror she witnessed. Suddenly; he stepped out of the viscous ink like shadows, revealing an outrageous spectacle of cannibalistic grotesqueness. He quietly stalked her while she was occupied (hunched over--throwing up.) A hulking paw grabbed the back of her head; whipping her neck into an appalling contorted shape; the petrified glow in her big grey eyes, gave away to the dark of night.

A sliver of ochre light flared across the dark snowcapped mountains; leaving a magnanimous thick fog behind. The neon vacancy sign radiated out into the narrow country road; casting a greasy yellow sheen on the cold tarmac. An ancient old woman sat behind the clerks desk, as Tiffany and Andy entered the lobby. Her neck was leathery fold of skin; her blind eye was white and calloused over, and her face looked like a thick truckers atlas of wrinkles. “Yeah forty-five per night.” she said with a mucus polluted voice--her chin almost touched her nose when she  began chewing the tobacco again-- spitting what looked like molasses in a tin coffee can. Tiffany looked at Andy with an expression of disapproval on her face; Andy took note of it, but pushed the thought out of his mind. They’ve been traveling for fifteen hours straight, and really need a fresh start in the morning.

The small motel room was very rustic looking: horseshoes on the wood paneled walls, elk antlers above the door frame, and solid redwood floors. To Tiffany’s surprise it was very nice inside. Andy rolled over on one side facing Tiffany on the bed; his eyes shimmered in the light; as he whispered a sequence of sexy vulgarities, in her soft ear. Some time had passed; she stayed awake in nostalgia over the first time she and Andy had met.

The little old woman turned off her television; then sloppily crammed the receipt book under the overcrowded desk. Arthritically walking down the creaky, rough cut wooden staircase to the motel basement. The smell of dust; decay, mold, and death reeked a nauseating odor. A macabre scene of human processing for human consumption! A tanned flesh curtain draped over the doorway, as she walked through it with a crooked smile. A hulking blood covered disfigured man; was tossing fresh body parts up on the cooler shelves. “Come on now boy!” the old woman shouted in a stern voice. “Here’s the keys to the front exit door; lock it before you get started boy. We don’t need another crazy running across the Goddamn parking lot again--all right boy! And send them down the chute this time; last time I like to never got that fucking mess cleaned up off the floors!” She looked up at him, and gave a pat on his melancholic face. “Go on now!” She sat down to a hot bowl of human gumbo, and changed the channel that was keeping the morbid freak company--a children’s alphabet channel. The old woman turned her weathered head to the chute; as a gore covered corps slid out, and across the large prep table.

Andy woke up to a resounding thud near their room. With curiosity, he opened the door and looked down the dim lit hallway of doors; he saw a huge man casually walking into a room four doors down. A second thump--no a third thump--and it was getting louder. Annoyed, he got up from underneath the warm blankets; looked down the hall once more, and saw nothing; not even the huge man again. Tiffany was in a sound slumber, so decided to investigate the strange thumping sound that was keeping him up. The narrow hallway floor was cold on his bare feet, and a strange knocking sound grew louder the further he went on. Stepping lightly; he approached the ajar door. He noticed something warm and slick on his feet; discovering the horror of standing in a pool of blood that ran from under the door. He stood bewilderment looking down at his feet. Suddenly the door flung open! The murderer was dragging a naked convulsing lady by the hair; her heels rapidly knocking on the wooden floor. Terror shocked--Andy was frozen in stationary--and everything quickly turned black. He was kicked down the chute first, then the convulsing lady behind him.

Tiffany was startled awake in the empty bed. Assuming Andy was in the bathroom, or at the soda machine in the hall. She waited up for what seemed like forever; the bathroom and hallway both was unoccupied; she began boiling over with anxiety, and searched the down the long cold floor. Stopping and leaning into the dark shadow adjacent to the soda machine. She could hear someone step out one of the rooms (heavy footsteps walking along the floor boards.) The slow moving monster was carrying a flaccid body--covered in blood--across his shoulder, and kicked the crumbled body down the chute. She covered her mouth with nervous hands--trying to hold her breath-- as the killer walked by the black shadow that concealed her presence. He shuffled through a ring of keys, as she stood squirming edgily on the brink of revealing herself. The murderer entered the room cautiously, and quietly with a heavy mallet in his leathery hand. The oak door slowly closed with no sound; she could hear the brass locks on the door when the killer locked himself in. Surging with adrenaline Tiffany jolted back to their room.

The convulsing lady began shaking Andy back to consciousness. The near mummified woman dropped her spoon in the repugnant gumbo. She walked over to where they were, and plucked a butchers knife off the magnetic bar. “We got us a wiggler.” the old woman said in a merciless voice. Andy was fading in and out; catching a glimpse of the old woman holding the knife. Warm blood leached behind Andy’s back; as her convulsions slowly declined.

Tiffany locked the door behind her; trying to give herself more time to make a successful escape. She could hear the brutality in the next room through the walls. Thoughts of Andy, and the probability of what happened to him; made her uncontrolled emotions escalate to a full panic.

He was struggling to stay awake; Tiffany’s face flash once in his mind. He frightfully began pushing the bodies away from him--some flopping off the stainless steel table. Andy faded out again, but caught a glimpse of the old woman standing above him. He struggled to keep the knife from his throat in a weakened state; he grasps her hands, and twists the blade to her stomach. A sharp thrust painfully sends her to the concrete--to bleed to death in punishment that fit her crime. He checked the upstairs door; only to find it locked from the outside, and he couldn’t muster up the strength to break it down.

Tiffany quickly made a beeline for the main exit door. Expecting to burst through to the cold night; she abruptly came to a halt; slamming her thin body on the unforgiving steel. The blood spattered killer turned sharply from his dead victim; when he heard the ruckus echo throughout the hall. Two more bodies slid down the death slide; ejecting Andy back out the gore lubed mouth again.

She broke the mirror that was hanging around the shower head. Pulling the curtain closed, and holding the long reflective shard with both hands, so tight it cut deep into the palms of her hands. Pecking of keys on the hardwood door made her adrenaline detonate with voltage like force. The killer completely demolished the room looking for her. The bathroom light unexpectedly turned on; as he stood there in silence for a moment--and then left. An extreme amount of tension left her body; her mind began to relax from the jittery possibilities of what was to come. Sliding her back down the wall to a resting seat in the bathtub. Deafened by the silence. Shockingly the curtain was ripped off the metal rail; exposing her by complete surprise. In the blind darkness she stabbed him in the groan with the shard, and tried to make a run for it, but he caught her leg. Dragging her to him; Tiffany kicked at his disfigured eyes (hoping to blind him.) Moaning on the floor like an animal; as he slowly pulled the reflective glass out of his wound. Rage was plastered over his mangled face. He slung his arms violently against the walls; as he got up in a slow agonizing pain. The search for her just became personal.

Andy slung the chute door open, and lobbed a flat bar out onto the floor. He could hear the stomping of light feet quickly coming his way. Glancing with a half shadowed face around the corner; only to see a running woman in the dim light. He snatched her up, and spun her around the dark corner. Tiffany’s body began to go into violent fits; as she began fighting Andy for her life. He was pushed her against the wall--looking closely at her face. “Andy!” Tiffany spoke in a sigh of relief, as she rested her tired face on his shoulder. He curled his arm around her sweaty head to comfort her. “We don’t have much time.” Tiffany spoke--still holding on. A crashing blow knocked the door off its hinges! The infuriated killer looked one way down the hall, and then to the other. His breath was pulsating in hostility. Checking the rooms again; thrashing the contents around in a malicious manor.

She lies on the hall floor pretending to be in distress. The murderer spots her right off, and slowly begins to lurk after her as she crawls away. (Keeping enough distance to lure him in.) Andy steps out of the shadows, and blind sides the hulking man. Repeatedly bashing his head with the steel flat bar--making the sound of an over ripened watermelon being busted on the ground. She swipes the keys from his belt, and gives a final kick to his wounded groan. He let out a eerily high pitched cry; as he collapsed in affliction. They ran to the room; desperately sifting through the demolished remains for the car keys, “we’ve got a problem.” Andy said in a sick timorous voice. It was like a heart piercing stab of failure! Only the coagulated blood traces remained in the hollow hallway.

Heavy boots produced a blood curdling sound throughout the motel. Tiffany turned back to the exit door; trying to remain calm, and not break any keys off in the locks. Andy stood rooted to the floor; preparing himself for a gruesome battle. The footsteps came to a halt-- the only thing that could be heard was the vigorous metallic tinkles of the key ring. With out warning the slow moving monstrosity began to run at them with remarkable speed. Rushing out of the shadows clamping a large terrifying scissor like garden tool. Andy struggled to hold him off. She opened the door, and ran out into the night. They shuffled around with each other; as the heavy door jack closed its self back. She could hear the distressing struggle going on inside, and all at once the noise ceased in the cold winter night. The long silence made her wait unbearable. The exit door popped open squeaking a hellish sound. Andy spilled through the doorway; battered and bruised, but still very much alive. She looked through the entrance, as she was helping him to his feet. The nauseating sight made her quickly turn her head in repulsion; as she assisted the door on its closing way with a hateful kick. She loaded him up in the SUV; punched the GPS home button, and pulled out with blue smoke rolling off the rear tires. Tiffany and Andy never returned to the Southern Appalachian Mountains again

Time's up

One rainy day, I was watching T.V. My sister was talking to herself again. I hated it when my sister talked to herself it was so annoying. My sister has short brown hair and brown eyes. She is also pretty short for an eleven year old. 

"Who on earth are you talking to?" I asked whipping my hair out of my face.

"I'm taking to my friend, Victoria." my sister replied with a smile.

Oh great my sister had an imaginary friend. My seven year old brother thinks she should be in a mental hospital.

After dinner, I was getting ready for bed, which I hated. I always had the same nightmare. My nightmare would be about a girl. She would be sitting in a corner of my room. Her long, silky, black hair would be around her shoulder. She would always cry "Help me", "Please" or "I'm lost."

It's morning, nobody knew about my dreams. My sister was talking to her friend.

"I love your hair Victoria. It's so long and shiny" my sister said.

Soft hair? The girl in my dreams had soft looking hair.

"What does Victoria look like?" I asked quickly.

My sister said she has long black soft hair and is pretty tall. That was all I needed her to say. I started to panic. All of a sudden, I saw Victoria standing right in front of me!

"I need help. Please!" Victoria cried.

I thought to myself why me? Why can't it be my sister who is supposedly friends with her. I ran up to my sister's room to ask her why Victoria needed help. My sister had no idea what I was talking about.

When I was brushing my teeth to get ready for bed, I saw Victoria right behind me! I spun around to see what she wanted from me, but she dissappeared. I screamed. Everyone came running they all had worried faces I stammered about Victoria. My mom said she didn't want to hear the name Victoria again. Later that night, Victoria didn't sit in her corner, but I felt her presence. I asked if my sister has seen or heard from Victoria. She said she has hasn't seen her ever since our mom said she didn't want to hear Victoria's name ever again.

I had to find a way to get in touch with Victoria. I went on the computer to find where Victoria's body was buried. I was doing this because I thought if I did this to Victoria will leave me alone. I hope that I wouldn't see or feel her presence again. Anyway, I found something on the computer. There was a tragic death to a girl in the lake. I scrolled down. The website finally mentioned a little girl's name, Victoria. I scroll down some more to make sure it was the right Victoria. On the bottom of the website I saw the picture of Victoria. The bottom of the website also showed Victoria's full name and years of her birthday and death. The website said nobody ever found a Victoria's body.

I felt someone chin brush against my shoulder. When I looked behind me nobody was there. Then I heard crying behind the door. I rushed outside of the room hoping to find Victoria, but instead I heard the crying in multiple places.

I opened all the doors and ran into every room hoping to see Victoria. I saw Victoria in a room but she ran to the next room. She kept on doing that until my mom came upstairs and asked what the commotion was about. I ignored her and ran into my sisters bedroom. I looked under her bed and in the closet. I was going to go back to the computer but when I turned around I saw Victoria!

I screamed and jumped backwards. Victoria hasn't disappeared yet so I thought now would be a good time to tell her I wanted to help her. I got the worst response ever. She told me she never needed my help and that our house was her house. she just try to scare us to move out of the house.

Victoria said my sister disturbed her sleep. when I ran to find my sister and ask how she know about Victoria I tripped on something and everything went black.

I woke up in the hospital. I had a broken leg. My family was in the room sleeping. I tried to get up but my leg too much. My brother was a light sleeper so he helped me up. I went the restroom and saw how brusied up I was. In the mirror I saw bloody letters form. The letters told me that my broken leg was just a warning. After I read, a burst of images appeared in my head.

I was running down a hallway which seemed extremely long. I fell and someone was stepping on my leg. I howled in pain. I looked up and saw Victoria. She was laughing hysterically with a bloody knife in her hand. She stabbed me in my leg repeatedly. Screaming at me to move out.

I woke up from the vision. I found myself on the hospital floor yelling in pain. my family were trying to come in the bathroom but I locked the door. I was leaning across from the door. I was trying to crawl across the tiny bathroom by my leg couldn't handle it. I felt my blood filling up my cast. It was a weird feeling.





I finally made it across. It took a few minutes to reach and unlock the door. Everyone rushed into the bathroom. My mom was helping me up while my brother and sister stared at all of my blood. I was back on the hospital bed. the nurse said I needed to stay in the hospital for at least 3 days. I wasn't happy about that because I hate hospitals. Nightime finally came, and surprisingly I fell asleep pretty easily. Around midnight, I heard someone laughing. I looked around the room and saw nothing. Then very faintly I heard someone whispering "One month". It kept saying that for a good two miniutes but I managed to fall back to sleep and next thing I knew I was back to sleep.

Luckily, I woke up the next morning. I thought it was Victoria who was whispering. I thought that "One month" ment how much time I had before something bad would happen.

When my family came I asked my mom if we could move. She asked why I would ask such a silly question. I wanted to tell her about Victoria, but she would probably call the nurse in to make sure I was okay.

I was back home in the den on the computer. I was searching I there had been hauntings in the house. Sure enough people have claimed to hear crying, screaming and seeing a little girl. There has even been killings.

I asked my mom if we could move again. She said no. I tried to tell her about all the haunting and killings, but she didn't belive me. I tried to tell my eleven-year-old sister and seven-year-old brother about everything and hoped they would get on my mom's nerves. That didn't happen.

I put matters into my own hands. I didn't care what my mom said anymore. I started packing for everybody. If they unpacked their thing I wouldn't re-pack it. I was going to leave them, and hoping they would see how serious I was.

After, I finished packing, I went on the computer to see where the lake Victoria drowned in was. I planned to go there tomorrow, but all of a sudden I got a horrible feeling. So i decided not to go and that feeling was gone.

I went to go eat breakfast alone. Everyone was still sleeping. As I was eating, I heard something fall. I got up and went to go check. It was a knife that fell. The knife was in a drawer. How did it end up on the floor? I picked it up and noticed something was carved on the handle. It said "Time's up." Which was weird sense my month just started. 

I finished my breakfast and ran to the computer to do more research. I found out Victoria lies. She will tell she will give you some time, but she kills you unexpectedly.

I ran to tell my mom we were moving no matter what she said, but something weird happend my mom ran right past me with a scared expression on her face. Mom ran into the den and as I caught up with her she had someone in her hands. She was crying. The person was me. There was blood everywhere. My leg was cut open with a knife stuck inside. Same with my arms. Victoria had cut me before I left the room.

I would tell you more, but everything went black. I waited to wake up in the hospital. Nothing happened. I was dead.

Horror storiesThe Giant of Hampton Bays

 Horror stories
A hook kick to the side of the head slowed his advance, so I did it again.  It connected like the first, and he stalled.  In a frantic effort to keep the colossus from harming me, I decided to go to the water hole for a third time.  That was a sizable blunder.  He seized my body, hoisted it in the air and smacked me down on the hardwood floor.  Everything was knocked loose inside my chest.  This is how I met my best friend Mitch, in a martial arts class.  Mitch was a powerlifter and one of the few strength athletes to ever wander from the weightlifting half of the gym to the Combat Karate section.  Years later, I became Mitch’s physical therapist and a powerlifting magazine featured us in an article entitled, “MITCH GENE AND JOHNNY KEENAN: THEIR FRIENDSHIP BEGAN WITH A KICK TO THE HEAD.”
After returning to my office from lunch one afternoon, I received a call telling me to go to the Nassau County Medical Center. Mitch had collapsed at work.  The ambulance dashed him to the hospital and after a CT scan, it was confirmed that he had a large, high grade IV astrocytoma primary brain tumor, usually called a glioblastoma multiforme.  They removed it, but found six other tumors regarded too small to operate on.  When Mitch woke up four days after the operation, specialists informed him that the smaller tumors probably should be treated with chemotherapy – but they were not optimistic.  When I told Mitch about a new medical center I’d heard of that specialized in brain tumor research, he asked me to take him there.  Immediately I made the necessary calls and we set out a few days later for the Vincent-Marcus Brain Surgery and Research Center, far out on Long Island, in the Hamptons.
Acting as Mitch’s advocate, we were both scheduled to meet with Dr. Leah Vincent and Dr. Henry Marcus to discuss Mitch’s condition and treatment.  After driving two hours through Suffolk County to reach the center and filling out a heap of forms in their lobby, we were shuffled into a plush, tranquil office and told to wait.  Within minutes Dr. Vincent and Dr. Marcus entered the room. Dr. Marcus’s expression exuded arrogance and boredom.  As they sat down in the chairs facing us, Dr. Vincent, who was a tall maiden with long auburn hair, threw me a quick knowing smile.  Her eyes sparkled when she smiled.  Dr. Vincent explained to Mitch the scores of tests scheduled that day to precisely evaluate his situation.
Mitch asked, “Do you really think you can help me?”
Dr. Vincent reached over and touched his shoulder.  “We will try our best, Mr. Gene.”
Mitch signed the necessary forms.  Dr. Marcus abruptly grabbed them up and left the office never bothering to say a word to either one of us.  Then Dr. Vincent and I approached each other.  I was confused as to why this obviously compassionate doctor would partner with a man like that. Perhaps she could sense what I was thinking because she returned my baffled look with a sad expression and a shoulder shrug. The nurses came in with a wheelchair and took Mitch.  Dr. Vincent suggested that I leave for the day since Mitch would be exhausted when they finished with him.
Eight hours after leaving the hospital, I was sitting outside the bungalow of the inn I had checked into.  Across the street  was a single house with yellow crime scene tape streamed around it.  Down the road was the bay.  With  nothing much to do, I decided to go for an evening walk on the beach. After journeying about a quarter mile through the sand, I discovered an enormous wooden log lying on its side. Obviously, the town parks department had it transported to the beach for tourists and local residents to sit on while viewing the ocean. Most likely an old telephone pole, this piece of timber was about nine feet long with a circumference close to fifty inches.  Judging from the numerous beer bottles strewn around the log, I was obviously not the first person to take advantage of this man-made respite. As I tried to relax by watching distant waves in the moonlight, I knew Mitch was not going to make it.

*

The following morning I received a call from the hospital telling me how Mitch’s condition had worsened overnight.  I drove to the Vincent-Marcus Center and was greeted in the lobby by Dr. Vincent who explained that because Mitch’s brain was bleeding out, he would not survive more than an hour. She suggested I go sit with him until he stopped breathing. As I slowly, fearfully, made my way down the hall, I noticed a police officer standing guard outside another room.  From inside that room I could hear a patient holler, “You know why I fight and drink and rob houses?!”
The cop looked disgusted. “No, Simeon, why do you do those things?”
Simeon responded with words that would never leave me.  “Because it’s the most fun in the world!”
Upon entering Mitch’s room, I could see that he was unconscious and yet in terrible pain. he was writhing in his bed. Because of his immense strength, they had him securely bound with heavy duty straps. Arms that can hoist a thousand pounds are not ones you want flailing about. I’d brought Mitch to this center hoping to save him, but that is not what happened. I hung my head in sorrow and began to pray. Unfortunately, the loudmouth criminal across the hall made it impossible to focus. Losing all patience, I stomped over to the police officer, pushed him aside, and entered the room. What I saw ended my diatribe before it started. Simeon’s skin was such a deep yellow that it appeared almost green under the room’s lighting.  From my own medical training I could tell he was in the advanced stages of cirrhosis of the liver. Even the whites of his eyes had become yellow. He also had a large scar across the side of his face, a nuthouse grin, and a black metal spike in place of a tooth. As I stood before him, unable to express a word, the police officer grabbed me and shoved me out of the room.
“You don’t put your hands on a cop?” he yelled.
“My friend is about to die, can’t this creature show a little respect?” I shot back.
The officer looked confused.  “Respect? Don’t you know who this is?”
He then invited me to sit in the chair next to him so he could adequately explain who the guy was – the notorious Jacob Simeon.
Simeon’s story began twenty-seven years ago when he was being chased by three police officers after a significant drug purchase. As he was running through a series of backyards frantically throwing away all the pills he was carrying, one of the cops, Officer McNally, circled around in an attempt to cut him off.  He jumped in front of Simeon who responded by trying to punch him to death.  The other two officers, Manzo and Hardedge, arrived, pulled their weapons and ordered Simeon to stop.  He did cease for a moment and then lunged at Officer Hardedge, who was aiming a shotgun at him.  As the officer fired, Simeon moved his head slightly to the right, and the left side of his face was sprayed with the blast.  Because it was at such close range, a large portion of skin peeled away.  The rest of the shot went directly into the face of Officer McNally, killing him.  After months of surgery, Simeon went to prison for a long time.
When finally released, Simeon pursued a life of bar fights, DWI’s and burglaries. He continued in this manner until cirrhosis of the liver brought him down. Sensing he was almost through, Simeon decided to finally take revenge on the two remaining officers who had sent him a way for so many years. By this time, both men had retired from the force and were living quiet lives in Hampton Bays. Shortly after leaving the job, Manzo’s kidneys failed and he had to go for regular dialysis treatments at Southampton Hospital. Three times a week for five hours a day, Manzo had his blood pumped out of his body into a ;machine and back into his body again. One day Simeon walked into Manzo’s busy dialysis unit and sliced the hose used to carry Manzo’s blood out of the machine and back into his body.  As Manzo’s blood pumped out onto the floor, the nurses frantically tried to save him. Simeon stayed and watched him die before easily slinking away.
The police found Simeon hiding in the house his deceased mother had left him.  It was located across the street from the inn where I was staying. They discovered him lying on the bathroom floor almost dead from liver disease.  When arrested, Simeon informed the officers that he wanted to take advantage of a special arrangement he’d heard about that was being offered by a local hospital to terminally ill prison inmates.  That is how he wound up at the Vincent-Marcus Center.
Simeon’s story did honestly grip me.  However, as soon as the police officer finished telling it, I remembered Mitch and bolted back to his room.  But it was too late. Mitch was no longer writhing – nor breathing.  I bent over his body, pressed my forehead into his shoulder and began to sob. Moments later I was pushed away by Dr. Marcus who appeared suited up for surgery.  I had no strength to protest the matter.
I left the hospital and drove and cried for hours. Eventually I returned to the inn and fell asleep, exhausted from so much weeping. The following afternoon, while still lying in bed, I heard banging on the door accompanied by an authoritative command. “Open up, Keenan, this is the police!” The herniated discs in my back made it impossible for me to quickly travel from the bed to the door, so the police opened it themselves with a key supplied by the inn manager. My eyes were then splashed with the visual of several police officers pointing their guns. As they pushed me against the wall I heard one say, “We are arresting you for the murder of Dr. Henry Marcus!” I was handcuffed, brought to the police station and hurried into a room for questioning. A short man with a wolverine-looking haircut and a pubescent-looking moustache approached me and introduced himself, “I am Detective Trulick.”
The he barked, “You participated in Karate tournaments years ago, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
He continued, “And isn’t it true that you were trained by a guy who used to break cement blocks on the Tonight Show?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it seems pretty obvious – at least to me – who murdered Dr. Marcus early this morning.” Detective Trulick held his fist close to my face.  “It’s still too early to tell for sure, but my buddies at forensics say that Dr. Marcus’s sternum and heart were destroyed by what looks like a powerful strike from a clenched hand.” He paused and grinned, “You know anybody who can punch like that Johnny?”
Irritated by Trulick’s incompetence, I shot back, “Why would I want to kill this guy?!”
The detective’s voice became smarmy.  “No doubt you blame him for the death of your – um – friend.  Come on, Johnny, you know you want to confess.”
The combination of him implying that Mitch and I were gay and his certainty that I had killed Dr. Marcus made me despise him.  After several hours of grilling me, he became frustrated and I was put in a cell for the rest of the day and the entire night.  The following morning a fat, smiling officer sauntered up to the cage I was in, unlocked it, and proclaimed in a loud voice, “Keenan, you are free to go!”
“Not until I know what’s going on!” I demanded.
The officer explained everything as he drove e to the police impound to retrieve my car – which they had searched thoroughly. While I was in the holding cell overnight, two more people were killed. Since one of the two slayings was identical to Dr. Marcus’s, this was enough to exonerate me. The first murder took place in the parking lot of a restaurant called the Villa Pietro. After drinking at the restaurant’s bar, retired police officer Jackson Hardedge and his brother-in-law James Ruckman walked outside and headed for Ruckman’s car. Apparently, when they reached the vehicle, both men were attacked. Ruckman’s body was discovered soon afterward in the parking lot. His sternum was cracked and his heart appeared to have exploded. medical experts determined this damage was caused by an enormous strike with an object resembling a fist.
Both Ruckman’s car and his brother-in-law, however, were missing. At first it was assumed by police that Hardedge had murdered both Ruckman and Dr. Marcus, since he was a powerful man standing six foot six. However, this theory was quickly proven wrong.  After investigators found Ruckman’s car at the corner of West Landing Road and Petrel Lane directly in front of the gate opening for Shinnecock Bay, they discovered Hardedge’s body crushed on the beach. A thousand pound log was placed on top of him. Since Hardedge also had a broken cheekbone, it was determined that his attacker first rendered him unconscious in the restaurant parking lot before dragging him into Ruckman’s car and driving to the bay. Investigators were not ruling out the possibility that several men were involved in the crime. It seemed outrageous that any one man alone could have raised the log that was dropped down onto Hardedge.
Remembering that Hardedge was the remaining cop that Simeon wanted to kill, I asked the officer if any detectives had gone to the Vincent-Marcus Center to question him. The officer responded, “So, you know about our little town drama? Well, we went down to the center early this morning to talk to him, but he died two days ago.  It sure looks like the bum arranged it though.”
After recovering my car, the officer said I could return to the inn where I had been staying. He informed me, “Detective Trulick took the time to call the innkeeper and tell him you were not the killer and so he should still give you a room. I tell you, that Trulick is a hell of a guy -- ain’t he?”
“The best of the best,” I responded.
The officer warned me, “Look, not for nothing, but if you’re staying in town, be careful going out after dark. The Giant is still out there.”
Thanks to local and national news reports, this is how everybody started referring to this ludicrously potent and brutal murderer.  He became known as the Giant.
As I drove up to the inn, I noticed that the crime scene tape was no longer neatly streamed around the house across the street. It was partially torn down.  dismissing it, I checked into the same room, unpacked all my belongings that the police had confiscated, and fell asleep. Waking up about nine o’clock in the evening, I ventured outside for some fresh air. After several minutes of enjoying the cool night breeze, I heard a crashing sound coming from Simeon’s house. Since a side window appeared open and relatively low, I decided to cross the street and go look inside.
I stood in front of the window, pushed away the curtain and peered into the house. What I saw made my legs quiver and dropped me to the ground. Managing a prostrate position, I struggled not to vomit.  It was Mitch! He had his massive hand over Dr. Vincent’s mouth and was whispering something into her ear. There were many stitches running around his head and he was wearing hospital scrubs. I got up, sprinted to the front of the house and side-kicked the door open. Unfortunately, Mitch was ready for me. The moment I entered, he hoisted me into the air and slammed me down on the hardwood floor. Now, flat on my back, I strained to catch my breath. Rolling my head to the right, I saw Dr. Vincent lying across from me.  She was bruised up but still breathing.
Mitch clapped his hands. “Bravo! That was a pretty big door you just kicked in.”
I slowly picked myself up off the floor. “Mitch, why are you hurting her? She only tried to help you.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s true enough. But I never squelch on a deal.”
I coughed out some words. “What deal?”
“Well, the doc said if he gave me life than I’d have to take hers in return.” Mitch started laughing. “Of course the doc never mentioned in the deal that I couldn’t take his.”
I dared to question his logic. “So, you’re following through on a deal with a man you already murdered?”
He frowned. “A deal’s a deal!”
I lost it. “But you’ve never killed anybody!  Why are you killing people now?!”
Finding my existence too much of an irritant to suffer any longer, he bounded towards me with a nuthouse grin, hollering, “Because it’s the most fun in the world!”

*

My memory of Mitch’s media circus funeral and the months that followed are still blotched and hazy. Last week I purchased an issue of the magazine that had written about us years earlier. On the cover was a picture of Mitch and I during happier times.  Just above our heads, spelled out in block letters, were the morbid words: “MITCH GENE AND JOHNNY KEENAN: THEIR FRIENDSHIP BEGAN – AND ENDED – WITH A KICK TO THE HEAD!”
Forgive me dear friend but I am unable to clear your name. Dr. Vincent refuses to confess what Dr. Marcus’s surgical pursuits were really all about.
Bio: I am a Professor at Davis College (in Johnson City, just outside of Binghamton, NY) and Mid-America Theological Seminary (Schenectady, NY).
I have also had some of my work published by the online science fiction magazine, the Cross and the Cosmos