All Kinds of Things Kill

by Robert R. Best

  And stopped cold in the middle of the porch.

  Terry lay dead a few feet from the mower.

  Blood was all over him, running from holes punched through his body. Blood pooled next to him, mingling in dirt and grass.

  Sam stared, unable at first to grasp what he was seeing.

  “Terry?” he said, knowing Terry was past hearing.

  Then he screamed “Dad!” and ran back into the house, leaving the door open.

  He raced from room to room, yelling for his father. But all of the rooms were empty.

  Downstairs, Sam thought. He ran around the corner and down the stairs in one motion, almost falling. He ran to the door to his father’s work room and raised a hand to knock.

  Then he saw the door was partly open.

  He pushed it the rest of the way. The light was on but his Dad was nowhere to be seen.

  “Dad?” he asked, stepping further into the room. He walked past the shelves of plants to the desk at the end. No Dad.

  Then he saw the curtain was pulled back from the tiny window that looked out into the yard. He saw movement outside and stood on his tip-toes, peering out past two large thick-leaved plants framing the window.

  His father stood over Terry’s body. But his father didn’t scream or cry or look around in horror. He just bent down and slung Terry over his shoulder. Then calmly walked out of view.

  Sam blinked and lowered himself down. His gaze fell on two thick wires running out from the basement wall and down towards the desk. The wires ran into a large electronic box sitting in the middle of the desk. It had knobs and handles and a big red light. Which was glowing.

  Sam’s eyes ran from the box back up the wires and into the wall. Into the yard. And Sam knew what had happened. Knew what his father had done.

  A cold rage grew in Sam and he ran out of the room and back up the stairs. He threw the door to the garage open and ran to the wall lined with tools. He yanked the hammer free, shaking several hooks loose and sending tools clattering to the table.

  Hammer in hand, he ran into the house and back down the stairs. He ran past the shelves of plants towards the table. And the metal flashing box.

  He screamed as he brought the hammer down. He struck the box again and again, sparks flying and a sputtering static coming from it.

  Finally, when the red light was out and the box was reduced to a pile of dented metal and wires, he stopped.

  For several seconds he stood, panting down at the remains of his father’s invention. The hammer hung loose and heavy in his hand. Then he heard his father sigh behind him.

  He spun around, gasping. The hammer flew from his hand and spun along the floor, smashing into a ceramic pot holding one of the many plants lining the walls. Right next to his father’s foot.

  Sam’s father looked at the broken pot, then up at Sam, and sighed again. He had blood on his hands and shoulder. Terry’s, Sam knew.

  “Oh, Sam,” said Dad. “This is going to be quite a blow to your mother.” He pulled a pipe from his shirt pocket. He took a bit of tobacco and crushed the leaves inside. He stuck the pipe in his teeth. “First Terry’s death, and now yours.”

  Sam’s legs were shaking, a mixture of rage and fear. But the rage was slowly fading, the fear becoming purer.

  “Why?” Sam managed to say. “He was your son.”

  “He was unnatural, Sam. I’d hoped you would understand that.” Dad looked Sam up and down. Finally he shook his head. “I suppose we should get started. I’ll have quite a lot of cleaning to do down here afterwards.”

  Sam was finding it hard to breathe. “Dad?” he tried to say, tried to plead, but his voice was small, almost silent.

  Dad reached into his back pocket and pulled something out. The remote contol. The one Sam had handled the first time he’d been down here. He pressed a button and the plants framing the window slapped their oversized leaves against the glass, blocking out all light.

  “I told you, Sam,” said Dad, holding up the device. “You can’t let things go wild.” He pressed another button and all the plants in the basement began to move.

  He turned his back to Sam and walked up the hall, towards the door.

  “Dad?” Sam repeated, his voice almost a squeak.

  Sam’s father said nothing. He snapped off the light and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

  “Dad?” Sam whispered. He heard his father’s footsteps echo through the darkness as he went up the stairs. Then the sound faded, replaced by rustling. Like a million voices. The sound of thick leathery leaves stretching and pulling.

  He wanted to run. He wanted to turn and claw at the tiny window. But he couldn’t move. He could only stand and shake, could only try his best to breathe through his constricting quivering throat. Could only stand and hear the sound of horrible green things reaching for him in the dark.

  Charity And The Vampire

  Charity stood behind the safety glass at the Vanguard Theater’s midnight 98¢ show. She took a long time counting the handful of coins the guy on the other side had given her. His name was Troy. He was cute, and they were talking, so there was no hurry.

  They talked so long three other people lined up behind Troy: a short round man, a woman toying with her hair and a thin man with glasses.

  “Got quite a line back there,” said Troy. He smiled and some of his slick black hair fell over one of his eyes. He had four earrings and a Cure shirt on.

  “Yeah,” said Charity, wondering if she had seen him on campus. She had a nose ring, a Cocteau Twins shirt and just-slightly red hair. “Those are cool earrings,” she said.

  “Thanks,” said Troy, putting one hand up to his ear. He brought it down and motioned at her midsection. “I like your shirt. Retro store?”

  Charity shook her head, smiling. “Nope. Yard sale.”

  Troy’s eyebrows went up. “No crap?”

  “No crap,” said Charity. “Well, I guess you need your change.”

  She opened the drawer and dumped the coins inside. She looked down to get his change and when she looked back up, the thin man at the back of the line was gone. There were now just two people behind Troy.

  “What happened to that guy?” she asked, pushing the change through the slot at the bottom of the glass.

  “What guy?” said Troy. He took the pennies and looked behind him. “Oh yeah,” he said. He looked around, then back at her and shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Well, that’s weird,” said Charity. “Guess he didn’t want to see the movie after all.”

  “I guess so,” said Troy. He looked down for a moment, then back up. “So, pretty late to be out working.”

  Charity shrugged, doing her best to look aloof. “Yeah, but I can leave as soon as the show starts.”

  “Do you ever watch the movie?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Troy smiled. “Well, I was thinking maybe you would watch this one.”

  Charity tried to look surprised. “With you?” She smiled and gave a little nod. “Yeah, okay. But let’s get your ticket first.”

  She shut the drawer and turned to the large metal bookcase along one wall of her booth. The case had several boxes and a printer on it. She watched as Troy’s ticket inched out of the printer. When it was done, she pulled it free and turned back.

  Now the woman was gone. Only the short round man was left. He was looking around, like he’d heard something but wasn’t sure what.

  “Now where’d she go?” asked Charity.

  “What?” said Troy.

  “The woman at the back. She’s gone now, too.”

  Troy again turned to look, then looked back. “Well, now that’s really weird.”

  “I know,” said Charity, leaning close to the glass to look around.

  “It’s kinda like that girl who vanished a few days ago,” said Troy.

  Charity’s face hardened a little. “Yeah. I’ve known her since grade school. We, ah, never got along. Can’t say I’m looking forward to her turning u
p.”

  Troy laughed a little. “So harsh.”

  Charity flushed a bit. “I know. I don’t really mean that, I guess. She’s been gone for days now.”

  The man behind Troy cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, “can we move things along, please?”

  “Oh, right,” said Charity. She handed Troy his ticket, sliding it under the glass. “Here you go.”

  Troy took his ticket and stepped off towards the door. The man next in line stepped up and passed a dollar bill under the glass. Charity took it, too embarrassed to say much, and opened the drawer. She looked down just long enough to lay the bill in the tray. She heard a tiny, muffled noise. She looked back up and the man was gone.

  She blinked at the empty air. “Sir?” she asked. “Sir?” She leaned forward and peered around. Nothing. She could see Troy, his back to her, off to the side. He was standing outside the door to the theater, reading the posters.

  “Troy?” she called. He apparently couldn’t hear her through the glass. She climbed up onto her stool and scanned the sidewalk. A dark smear led from where the man had been around to Charity’s left, out of sight down an alley. She climbed back down. “Troy?” She repeated, louder.

  This time he heard. He came back over, keeping his eyes on her. “What is it? Mr. Anxious leave?”

  “Well, yeah, but he didn’t get his ticket. He just vanished.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious. Do you see him out there?”

  Troy shrugged, grinned and looked around. He took a step towards the glass and frowned.

  “Stepped on something,” he said, then bent down to pick it up. He came back up, holding what he had found and looking at Charity with blank horror. Charity looked at what he held. It was small and red. It was an ear.

  “What is that?” asked Charity, much too quiet for him to hear.

  Then with a wild, feral sound something pounced on Troy. It looked like a person but moved much too quickly. It clamped its mouth on Troy’s neck. Troy screamed. Blood shot from his neck and hit the glass. Charity jumped back, falling over her stool and onto the floor. The stool cracked, sending bits of wood flying. Blood coated the glass and she couldn’t see out. Troy’s scream degenerated into gurgling. Then there was only the sound of something eating. A wet, sucking sound.

  Charity sat where she fell, shaking. The streetlight shone through Troy’s blood, casting the booth in various shades of red. The sucking sound continued. She stood slowly and made her way to the back of the booth, where a door let out into the theater. It was locked and the lock was old, requiring a key for both sides. Slowly, her hands shaking in the red light, she fished out the old key her boss had given her. She slipped it into the lock.

  The sucking sound stopped. Charity froze, afraid to make any sound, even the tiny sound of turning the key. Then something hit the booth with a loud thud. Charity jumped, her hand jerked and the key came out. She held still and listened. Everything was quiet. She moved the key back to the lock but it wouldn’t go in. She looked more closely at her hand. All she held was the top of the key. The rest was broken off in the lock.

  The thud came again.

  She turned back towards the glass, dropping the useless remains of the key. She listened. There was no sound for several moments. She hoped the thing had left.

  She took a step up. There was still no sound. She started to move again when the thud rang out a third time. She let out a little yell, then clamped her hand over her mouth.

  Something slapped onto the glass. Charity blinked at it, then realized it was a hand. The hand moved back and forth and up and down, smearing the blood. Finally it thinned out a spot Charity could see through. The hand dropped out of sight.

  Charity could do nothing but stand and listen to her quivering breath. She stared out the opening the hand had made. She could see a little of the street, a few parked cars and a bicycle. Nothing else.

  “Hello?” she finally ventured, too low to be heard through the glass.

  “Who’s there?” said a face that suddenly appeared in the opening. Charity jumped back, stumbling on the wood of her broken stool.

  The face saw and laughed. It was a girl, Charity’s age. Her chin was covered in blood. Charity realized she knew who it was.

  Charity is seven years old and sitting at the back of the school bus. She spends most of the ride staring at her feet. Jewel is a few seats up, talking to some boy with a jean jacket and a hostile, vacant look. Several times they look at Charity, say something to each other and laugh. Charity looks while trying not to look like she’s looking. She catches Jewel’s eye one time too many. Jewel slides out of her seat and walks back to Charity.

  “Hey, Charity,” says Jewel. “Richard was just telling me a really funny story. Would you like to come hear it?”

  Charity looks at Jewel, then at Richard, then back at Jewel. She wonders if maybe they had been laughing at a story and not at her. She relaxes a little.

  “Okay,” she says. Jewel steps back, behind the seat. Charity slips out.

  “Don’t forget your lunchbox,” says Jewel from behind. Charity picks it up and begins to walk. Jewel grabs Charity’s shorts and yanks them down to her ankles. The other kids start laughing. Charity drops her lunch box and it falls open. She bends down to grab her shorts and Jewel kicks her rear. Charity stumbles forward. Her foot kicks the lunch box, which slides down the aisle in front of her. She falls, landing face down in her sandwich and baggie of chips. The kids roar with laughter.

  “Jewel?” said Charity.

  Jewel stopped laughing. “Charity?” she said, mimicking Charity’s tone.

  “What’s going on out there?” asked Charity, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “There’s blood all over your face.”

  “There is?” asked Jewel. She touched her chin and held up her bloodied fingers to view them. She tasted the blood, then looked relieved. “Oh, that. That’s his.” She stepped to one side and held up Troy’s head. It was no longer attached. Charity screamed and fell back against the door.

  “I thought you meant mine,” Jewel finished, moving back in front of the opening. She took a few steps back and hurled Troy’s head against the glass. The glass held. Jewel let out a frustrated roar and slammed herself against the booth.

  “Let me in, Charity,” she said, writhing against the glass. “I’m so hungry.” She moved her tongue over the glass, swabbing up Troy’s blood.

  “LET ME IN!” she screamed, pounding her fist on the glass with each word. Then she stopped writhing. She looked up at something Charity couldn’t see, then back at Charity. She smiled, revealing two fangs.

  Then she leapt straight up, with a power and speed Charity wouldn’t have thought possible. Charity looked around the booth, feeling the silence settle. Then a loud thud came from above her.

  “Charity…” came Jewel’s voice from above. She drew out the word like she was calling for a child. The thud came again.

  Charity knelt down, keeping her eyes on the ceiling. She picked up a leg from her broken stool and straightened. She held it tight, trying not to shake.

  With a loud crack, Jewel’s fist came through the ceiling. Her hands grabbed the hole’s edges and wrenched them back. Jewel’s head poked through.

  “There you are,” she said, and hissed. She reached for Charity.

  Charity beat at Jewel’s hand with the stick. Jewel twisted her arm around and grabbed hold of Charity’s weapon. She pulled the stick, and Charity, towards her. Charity let go and the stick snapped back into Jewel’s eye. Jewel screamed and dropped it. Her scream was like an animal.

  “Dammit!” she yelled and pulled back from the hole. Charity ran to one side of the booth and grabbed the large metal bookcase. She pulled it forward and it fell, stopping when it hit the far wall. It straddled the booth at an angle, the top of the case blocking the hole.

  Jewel screeched and pounded at the bookcase. Charity heard her scratching and screaming. She picked up her stick and fought to c
ontrol her breathing.

  Charity is in high school and sitting in the cafeteria. She does her best to stare at her food. Jewel is at a nearby table with her current boyfriend. His arm is around Jewel. Charity glances at them. Jewel sees the glance.

  “Hi, Charity!” she says, her voice overly sweet. Charity looks down and pretends not to hear.

  Jewel turns to her boyfriend and whispers loudly. “She never says much. She’s like some sort of dyke mute.”

  The boy laughs and grabs a handful of food from his tray. He flings the wad at Charity. It slaps the side of her head, stinging her cheek and filling her ear with mush.