by Joe Sullivan
‘Lucas!’ she shouts, as the bottle grazes his lips.
‘What?’ he says, pausing momentarily, a guilty look on his face. ‘Might as well make the most of it!’ He chuckles, winking at the woman. Lucy feels sick, and powerless. She has no doubt that the beer is drugged, and that one solitary sip will be enough to put her brother out like a light. The woman has removed her sunglasses. She watches Lucy with bright, cold, intelligent eyes, assessing her like a bird assessing an insect.
‘You can’t drink and drive, Lucas,’ Lucy says, feebly, avoiding the other woman’s gaze, and knowing that the game is up. ‘Besides, I don’t feel well. I’d like you...I’d like you to walk me back to the car.’ She tries to communicate that something is horribly wrong with her eyes, but the idiot only has eyes for the woman, who is, admittedly, gorgeous- Lucy can see that, now. She has long legs and long dark hair, and full, red lips. She’s also a murderous predator, but Lucy guesses that doesn’t translate so well, at first glance.
Lucas makes no move to depart, so Lucy lunges forward, grabbing his wrist.
‘Come on!’ she hisses, low and forceful, pulling him away, towards the door, towards safety, and the crazy woman puts down her beer bottle, in a slow, graceful, and deliberate movement, and reaches into a pocket for something hidden, and takes a step forward, and Lucy feels as if her heart will burst from fear, as she pulls and pulls urgently on Lucas’ wrist, trying to drag him to safety, trying to leave the nightmare van, and the woman takes another step forward, and something bright, and shining slides free from her pocket, and Lucy can see that it is a knife, she can tell that Lucas hasn’t spotted it yet, and she feels a scream swelling in her throat, and then…
And then, she hears it.
Or, more accurately, she becomes aware of it, despite everything else that is happening. It rises and looms, like an approaching wave. Quiet, at first, then building in intensity and urgency.
It is the sound of people, screaming.
#
Lucy tears her eyes away from the woman, reluctantly, trying to establish which threat is the greater threat, and glances to the open door to see what is happening outside. Because something...something is happening. Something somehow worse than the dying man in the closet. All the hairs are up on the back of her neck, and her arms prickle with gooseflesh.
Something...terrible is going on.
There is a blur of activity, and a man races past, eyes wide with panic. His shirt is red with spray patterns of gore. Within moments, he is gone, running for his life, his arms and legs pumping hard. Lucy hears a thump, and a large, metallic screeching sort of crash in the distance.
‘What the fuck?’ she says, moving as if in a dream towards the door, towing Lucas behind her, for she has not let go of his wrist. The woman with the knife seems to have lost interest in them, and is frozen, like a deer in headlights, nostrils flaring as she listens to the oncoming tide of screams, crashes and thuds.
‘What is it?’ Lucas asks, his voice hollow.
Another streak of movement, and another man stumbles past, and then a woman, and then more people, children, men, women, old, young, dogs... Everyone is suddenly running, running and screaming, a desperate exodus of people abandoning their cars and racing away from...
From something.
But what? Lucy thinks, unable to make sense of what is happening. The screeching, crashing, squeezed metal noise gets closer, followed by loud, distinct thumps that shake the ground, rattling the walls of the Winnebago.
SCREECH! She hears, and then CRUNCH!
SMASH!
THUMP!
Hundreds of voices raise up in anguish, and panic, and Lucas and Lucy look at each other, wide-eyed.
‘Let’s go,’ her brother whispers, his face white, and then they are out of the van, and running too, running for their lives, like small, feral animals fleeing a burning forest. The woman in the van, the body in the cabinet, it all pales in comparison to what is happening around them. The thumps and crashes get closer, and closer, and the ground shakes beneath the weight of something monstrously huge. Lucy trips, ploughing forward, her ankle turning under her, and is almost trampled underfoot by the crowds of people behind, but Lucas hauls her up just in time. She regains her footing, sobbing, almost blind with terror, limping on regardless, and realizes that they are moving in the wrong direction, because whatever it is behind them is herding them along like cattle, towards something. It hits her like a lightning strike that their only hope for survival is to break free of the tangled, scared stampede, and get off the motorway.
And so, Lucy makes an abrupt, ninety-degree turn, gripping her brother’s wrist so hard she can feel her nails digging into his flesh, dragging him behind in her slipstream, and she crashes into men, and women, all these people, all of them running in the wrong direction! But she doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back. She smashes her hip into a car, bounces off, catches her outstretched arm on the open boot of another, keeps going. She is headed for the bank of the motorway, knowing that their best chance lies in getting off the tarmac, and away from the road altogether. The squealing, crashing noises move closer, and there is something else coming now, too, a smell not unlike the smell that leaked out of the boot of their car earlier that day as it sat stinking in the sun, not unlike the smell in the cabinet where the man with a slit throat lay drowning in his own blood, and Lucy knows what it is suddenly: it is the stench of death.
Death is coming for them, on huge, heavy feet.
Then Lucy, who is running and limping forward like a soldier through no-man’s land, remembers something.
She remembers the body in the trunk of their car.
#
The edge of the motorway is closer now, and beyond the vehicles and crowds she can see a bright field of ripening wheat. It’s dotted with vibrant red poppies. From here they look like drops of blood.
Lucy and Lucas make a final push through the charging throngs of people and throw themselves over a burning hot metal crash barrier that lines the edge of the motorway. This catapults them into a ditch, which they roll into, and then crawl out of, lurching onwards into the wheat field. Long, dry stalks, some of which are still green, brush against their legs as they move, whispering things to them. It is as if a thousand thin, sibilant voices are singing the same song, and the song is an ugly one:
We know what you did, the wheat stalks say. We know.
A great, spine-chilling roar lifts into the air around them like a flock of black starlings taking flight, swirling about, filling every available inch of space with unending rage and pain and torment. The siblings collapse to the ground, flattening the wheat stalks, clamping their hands over their ears, from which blood now trickles, as it does from their nostrils. The earth shakes with those colossal steps. Lucy can bear it no longer. She opens her eyes, and understands, at last, what is happening to her.
She is in hell.
#
Before her, rising above the wheat and the cars and the people like a vast monument to the dark, strides a horse-headed beast, a skeletal thing on corded legs, naked, soiled, and trailing thick banners of acrid smoke behind it. Those banners curl and climb into the blue sky, reaching for the sun. Massive, satin-black wings flex on the beast’s back, creating a shuddering new horizon, throwing those who scuttle below it into the shadows.
It walks carefully, picking its way through the traffic jam, scanning the motorway, and then, at what seems at first to be on a random whim, it brings one vast, hoofed foot down, hard, upon a vehicle. The metallic, squealing noises make sense, now, as car after car, vans, including the Winnebago, lorries, bikes and trailers are trampled into thin masses of warped, smoking metal and glass. But it isn’t random, it is searching, Lucy realizes, searching, with its empty eye-sockets, looking for something, choosing which cars to destroy, and which to save.
And then it stops. There is silence for a blissful second, where not even the wheat sings to them. Lucy holds her breath, as does Lucas. The beast stills
, lifting its head high, scenting the air. It brays, flexing its wings once more, and then the vast, ancient, evil head swings slowly towards them.
There is no escape, Lucy thinks, and she closes her eyes as the ground shivers beneath her. She has set herself on this path, brought herself to this place, her and her brother, thou shalt not kill, it says in the Bible. They knew the rules, from birth, but chose to ignore them. They killed, they murdered, they committed the ultimate sin, and now they are here, alone in a field of wheat dotted with bright crimson poppies, and the very earth is shaking.
Lucy opens her eyes one last time, the smell of death stealing into her mouth, and comes face to face with the beast. It stares at her with empty holes for eyes, and if she looks hard enough, she can see fire, in the distance, and in the fire, the bodies of thousands of people who are all just like her, writhing in agony.
Then, it raises one leg, and Lucas is screaming beside her, but Lucy is tired, and doesn’t want to run anymore.
The foot comes down.
The sun shines on.
And, in a parked car on an abandoned motorway in the middle of a steaming hot summer’s day, blood drips from the trunk, running down the resin bumper, and pooling onto the tarmac.
It sizzles as it lands.
Gemma is a writer of horror, speculative and science fiction. She is the author of Cruel Works of Nature, which she also hand-illustrated, and of forthcoming books White Pines (a paranormal mystery novel about an entire town that vanishes one day) and Till the Score is Paid, another collection of short stories, published by Giles Press and due out in December. Gemma also writes for the NoSleep Podcast and Shadows at the Door, and writes, produces and acts in two of her own podcasts, Calling Darkness, which stars TV and film actress Kate Siegel, and Whisper Ridge.
The Switch
Cameron Chaney
“Are you sure you want to do this? Just say the word and I’ll turn this baby around and take us back home.”
Clutching her stuffed teddy bear, ten-year-old Celeste Beckett leaned forward in the passenger seat of the white SUV rental to see through the tinted window. Most of the other girls were arriving in ancient white busses, each slapped with multicolored handprints on all sides. Other girls were bouncing out of their parents’ cars and blowing goodbye kisses before running off, duffel bags in hand. These girls looked overjoyed, eager to get away from their parents for the summer and be with friends they hadn’t seen since last year.
Watching two girls race toward each other and embrace like long lost sisters, Celeste addressed her grandfather. “It’s okay, Papaw. I want to do this.” She pushed a lock of straight blonde hair behind one shoulder and forced a reassuring smile. “It’ll be fun. It’ll be…” Her grin faltered. “It will be a good thing.”
Celeste’s grandfather nodded. “You’re a strong one. Always have been.” He gave her shoulder a light pat. “But don’t think for a minute that you can’t call if something goes wrong. If anything happens—you get hurt or you start feeling down—you just give this old fart a call and I’ll be here in two seconds.”
He held up two fingers, then wiggled them under Celeste’s chin, giving her a tickle. She giggled even though it made her feel like a silly little girl. She hated that.
“Be careful this summer,” he continued. “And I mean it, Celeste, call if you need me. I’ll pick you up and we can stay at the lodge instead.”
Not the lodge again, Celeste thought. Platinum Creek Lodge was a resort in Celeste’s town that catered to rich people and their stuck-up children. One of her first memories was of splashing in the kiddie pool when a boy twice her age hurled a scuba mask at her face for no apparent reason. She was left sitting in the middle of the pool, blood trickling from her nose into the water, causing all the other kids to run away in hysterics. Celeste’s mother had immediately considered suing the boy’s parents to cover the cost of her five-year-old’s new nose.
Fortunately, Celeste’s nose hadn’t been broken. It healed just fine. The boy who had thrown the mask at her, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. A few days after the incident, he decided to dive headfirst down a steep waterslide and wound up cracking his skull open on the pool floor.
“Karma,” Celeste’s mother had said, flicking through her magazine as they wheeled the boy’s lifeless body away.
She continued to take Celeste to Platinum Creek every summer afterward, abandoning her daughter to fend off mean children while she gossiped with her girlfriends or hooked up with their husbands when the women were too tipsy to notice.
God, no. Celeste would never go back to that hell. Never again.
“Thanks. I’ll be fine,” she told her grandfather. “See you in August.”
After grabbing her bags from the trunk, her papaw drove away, waving from the open window until he was out of sight. He’d be on his flight back to California within the hour.
Celeste turned and eyed the scene before her. Welcome to Camp Little-Ridge, read a banner draped across the entrance of the head counselor’s cabin. A trio of girls walked past, sharing details about the school year with breathless excitement. One of the kids spotted Celeste watching from the sidelines and beamed, giving her a giddy wave. Celeste nodded to her, but quickly turned away. She wasn’t here for those girls.
Spotting the head counselor taking attendance by the flagpole, Celeste paced toward her so that she may check in. All the while, she scanned the campground with watchful eyes.
To the other girls, Celeste seemed a strange sort, dressed as if she were about to attend a tea party rather than prepared for a game of muddy Tug of War. Then there was the old stuffed bear she clutched to her chest like a safety raft, if you could call it a bear. To onlookers, it seemed more like a doll dressed in a bear costume. Its human face was all teeth and rosy cheeks.
Celeste was pretty, yes, and obviously came from a wealthy family, but beneath her neatly combed hair and shiny skin was a sad, cautious girl. A lonely girl.
Abigale Fitzpatrick was home.
Bursting into cabin number four, she threw her duffel on her usual bunk and bounded toward her friends, hugging one of them around the neck until she begged for air. The four of them caught up for a spell until Abigale noticed Carrie Brackshaw standing at the back of the group, arms crossed. The two grew very close last summer and had stayed in touch during the school year, but Carrie didn’t seem very excited to see Abby now.
“Hey, Carrie,” Abigale said with unease. “What’s wrong?”
The other two girls turned to face the small red-headed girl, who blushed in embarrassment. “Nothing…Just confused.”
“What about?” Abigale asked.
“You look different,” Carrie answered.
“We all do.” Monique Travis laughed. “I think the short hair is good on you, Abby.”
“Thanks,” Abigale said, tucking a blond lock behind one ear.
Carrie shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. I saw you outside a few minutes ago and your hair was as long as it was last year. And you were wearing a dress.”
It was Abigale’s turn to laugh. “I haven’t worn a dress since my grandpa’s funeral when I was six. You must’ve seen someone else.”
“But she looked just like you,” Carrie said.
“Ooo, Abby has a twin,” Darla Henderson exclaimed.
“I wish,” Abby said.
Abigale was an only child. She would have given anything to have a sister, or even a little brother to push around, but all she had was her father and his snake of a wife, Lola. Just thinking of the woman’s name made Abigale shudder. She was glad to be back at Camp Little-Ridge, away from the loneliness she faced at home. The only time Mr. Fitzpatrick spoke to his daughter these days was to reinforce Lola’s countless rules and punishments.
“Well, if I see your lookalike again, I’ll let you know,” Carrie replied. “It’s good to see you.” She smiled for the first time and gave Abigale a warm hug.
That’s when Abigale saw the girl for
herself. She stood in the open doorway of cabin number four, the morning sunlight glinting on her long golden hair. She was every bit of ten years old, but the teddy bear dangling from her clenched fist and her outfit—a lilac colored dress with three-quarter length sleeves and matching flats—gave her the appearance of a five-year-old prepared to attend Sunday Mass. Disregarding the long hair and poor fashion choices, however, Abigale Fitzpatrick saw herself looking back.
Shocked, Abby pulled away from her friend’s arms and covered her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Are you guys seeing this or am I freaking out?”
Carrie, Darla, and Monique all turned to see the strait-laced version of Abigale standing a few yards away, a shy smile parting her lips. She gave them an awkward wave before hoisting her bags onto a nearby bunk and stepping toward them, stopping right in front of Abby.
“Hi,” the girl said, a quiver in her small voice. “I’m Celeste. I knew you would be here.”
Abby ripped open a second package of tissues and blew her nose, glad that her friends were eating lunch at the mess hall instead of watching her fuss. Abigale had never been the crying type—her skin had only grown thicker in the years following her father’s second marriage—but this was different. She knew her dad kept things from her, that he put off sharing details about her mother in hopes that Abigale would forget and move on. But she never would have guessed he was hiding something this big.
“I found a family portrait tucked in a photo album in the attic,” Celeste explained. “It was a picture of Mom, a dark-haired man, and me as a baby. And you.”
“But how did you know I would be here?” Abigale asked, wiping tears from her cheeks.
“Heehee told me. Just like he told me where to find the picture in the attic.”
