by A. R. Braun
I had to get out of there. Turning, I raced down the carpeted stairs while holding onto the banister, and then picked up the phone.
My feet went out from under me as I felt an object crack across my ankles and feet. Good God, someone tripped me! I sat down hard, groaning. Never had I felt more pained and tired. In a haze, I looked up, knowing I wouldn’t see the intruder. I cleared my throat.
“Look here! Whoever you are, if you want money, you can have it. I can’t bear this injustice any longer! Take whatever you want and go.”
“I want your soul,” that scratchy voice said from behind me.
I couldn’t believe it when I actually started crying like a newborn. Ripping the phone off its cradle, I dialed, not bothering to get up. It rang thrice.
“Who’s calling me at this hour?” Arnold asked in an angry voice.
“It’s Gerald. Someone’s after me in my house. Can I . . . stay the night?”
“What? Hey, don’t call this late! It’s after ten.”
I breathed hard. “It won’t happen again.” I gagged from fear.
“If someone’s in your house, bubba, you need to bust out the shotgun and take care of it.”
I sighed. “You don’t understand. I can’t get a gun.”
“Then bash their brains in with a baseball bat, or call the police. I can’t help you.”
“But whoever it is never shows himself.”
“Well get the hell out of there! What are you talking to me for?”
I sighed again. “I tried that, but whoever it was haunted me at the motel too.”
Click.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it in disbelief as I whimpered. A scraping sound raked the stairs as my eyes looked toward the landing. Was it a demon from the pits of hell? Turning back toward the living room, in my mind, I saw a ghost crawling across the floor like a man with no legs, right in front of me, and the thought troubled me so terribly that my nerves began to fray like cut wires. I looked up and saw nothing but the ugly, yellow wallpaper, a brown leather couch, and dusty drapes covering the isinglass windows. I stared at the pictures of my siblings on the walls. Perhaps they could help me. Although my sisters had always neglected me, it was worth a try.
I dropped the phone in its cradle, then picked it up and listened for a dial tone.
“Nobody is going to help you, Gerald. It’s just you and me,” the grating voice said in the phone.
“Who is this? I swear to it, you can have everything I own if you’ll just leave me alone and let me sleep!” I could hear my voice tremble and hated myself for the cowardice.
“But that’s the thing. You haven’t got the guts to search for me. I’m in the house, yet you don’t know where, and won’t know, ‘til I take you into the beyond with that wife of yours.”
I blinked. Why is this happening to me? Good Lord, what have I done?
“Are you still there, chicken-guts?”
I drew in a few more deep breaths. “Yes, I’m . . . here. What do you want?”
“I told you, your soul. You aren’t damned, you little weasel. At least not yet. You regret your lust for other women while you were married to your wife, and I don’t think you’ll ever do that again. You know why? Yes, I think you do. Because it would take courage to lust—something you don’t possess. You don’t even have the spine to search the house and find me. So I’m going to keep tormenting you until you buck-up and get off your duff. Do something that takes gumption, old man. Are you up for it? Or do I have to keep playing with you?”
When whoever that was spoke of my wife, my fear turned to rage. “Now, listen here, you just leave my wife out of this! Let her rest in peace!”
“Or what?”
Fear like stick pins jumped into me as I thought of what the phantom had said about how I’d lusted. Sweat slicked my hands and I could barely hold the phone. “Wait just a minute. How do you know of my lust for other women? I’ve never told anyone about that.”
“I know a lot of things. Call it intuition.”
“Is this Mary from work, jilted because I won’t sleep with you?”
“No, you yuck-mouth! I don’t want a piece of you. I told you. I want your soul.”
I gaped. “Is this . . . the devil? Come to make me pay for my lust toward wayward woman?”
“No, you old fuddy-duddy. It’s not the devil, it’s not a ghost, it’s not Mary and it’s not a demon.”
“Then who the hell is it?” I yelled.
“Why don’t you search the house and find out?”
I scowled. “You scoundrel, I will, if you even so much as mention my wife again.”
“Mention your wife? Why, I’ll look just like your wife when you find me. And when you enter my vagina, I’ll change it into the mouth of a lion and bite off more than I can chew. Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.”
I stood up, shaking with rage and fear. “Now you’ve done it! I’m coming for you and you’d better beware! I warn you, I was the Golden Glove champion of 1975.”
“Hmm . . . come then.”
“I will! And right now!” I slammed the phone down in its cradle, and then rushed up the stairs to retrieve my baseball bat and do just what Arnold had recommended.
I stopped short just before entering my bedroom.
The bedsprings creaked, louder and louder. A female voice moaned in ecstasy. I felt arousal at this abomination. Surely this immoral act wasn’t happening in my home, but I put my ear to the door to hear more.
Not being able to take the sounds any longer, I burst through the doorway and saw two bodies writhing under the sheets. My God, who has broken into my house? I ripped off the quilt and found . . . found . . . nothing. I scratched my head, going through more mental turmoil than a patient in a mental home.
What in the world? What has my life become? Haunted by something I can’t even see? All the pleasures in life seem to have . . . turned their backs, and . . . left me behind. The whole world’s moving forward, and I stand in my house fearing my own shadow. What’s wrong with me?
Someone from behind stuck the smallish end of the baseball bat as far up my butt as possible with my pants on.
“Raaaaah!” I spun around in a fury. “See here!”
Only an empty hallway stood in front of me. The bat sat on the floor.
“That’s the last straw. Here I come, you miscreant!”
Sweating, my heart pounding in my ears, I picked up the bat, screamed and ran to search the small house.
There’s nothing in the house! This is the worst thing that could’ve happened to me. I’ve searched from top to bottom. If it had been a ghost, I would’ve felt the temperature drop. If it had been a demon, I would’ve felt it trying to possess me. If it had been an intruder, I would’ve found him. There’s nothing in the house! My anxiety has taken over, and I can’t calm down. While pacing, I feel like my brain squirming with bugs. I’ve lost my mind!
Never Meet Your Heroes
Dear Mr. Macabre,
My name’s Jack and I’m your biggest fan. I live for you. No other horror novelist scares me. Your stories keep me up all night. If it wasn’t for daytime naps, I’d be screwed! Keep up the good work. You rule!
Your friend,
Jack Cronesboro
Jack clicked send and walked home from the library to his apartment in Detroit, the warm weather comforting his frame. Tomorrow couldn’t come quickly enough. Miles’s reply would be like finding a buried treasure.
At his building, Jack passed a bloodstain in the hall—the result of a drunk smashing his hand through the hallway window, which had plastic over it. Giving the reeking bum who lay in the hallway a wide berth, Jack wrinkled his nose against the blood, vomit and piss assaulting his nostrils as he passed him. The hobo began to stir and say something. Jack fumbled with his keys and unlocked his door.
Jack wanted to puke while gazing upon his slum. He smelled bug spray and stomped to the icebox, grabbing a bottle of Jagermeister, which chilled his han
d. The taste of black licorice stung his palate as he drank it down.
Jack picked up Depopulation: Beast-Style with the other hand and sat, kicking out the footrest on his La-Z-Boy chair. Soft and comfortable, the seat made him exhale with relief.
Three hours later, Jack closed the masterpiece with a satisfied smile on his face. Another fabulous ending that only Miles could bring about: Satan winning in Armageddon and all the Christians going to hell! He did it again!
Something scurried in the kitchen and Jack rose to investigate. He spied a cockroach as big as a mouse scampering across the floor. Good God! It looks like an African cockroach. It dashed into a mouse hole like a bolt of lightning. Jack shuddered.
He found sleep a futile endeavor, tossing and turning while seeing images from the book in his head, with the beast rising from the sea and reigning over the world.
Outside, a man yelled and a lady screamed. The noises made Jack imagine the Prince of Darkness. When he walked outside, no one lurked there. Jack looked in the dumpster and found a discarded butcher knife. Trembling, he went back inside, wondering if he’d wake in the morning to find the devil had depopulated all the Christians and defeated God.
After work the next day, Jack went to the library at six-thirty, his spirits bright as he steeled himself to read Miles’s reply. Jack was shy and ignored the cute girls sitting at the other computer terminals. He logged in and brought up Deadskeletons.com, a place for horror friends. The flash player showed a skull throwing its head back and cackling.
Yet Miles hadn’t replied. He was online, it showed. Jack assumed he would get around to him and visited other horror websites.
By seven-thirty, he revisited Deadskeletons.com. Miles still hadn’t replied. Oh well, he’s probably busy with his millions of other fans. He’ll email me when he can.
Two weeks later, he went back to the library and Miles still hadn’t replied. Jack had talked to other horror authors before, and they’d always responded. I don’t understand it. He emailed him again.
Dear Miles,
This is Jack again, your number one fan. Why didn’t you email me back? I think you’re the greatest and I just finished your newest book last night. I think it’s your best yet. When can I expect your next book? Is there a tentative title? You rock!
Sincerely,
Jack Cronesboro
Jack stood out in the woods in his underwear, his hair flowing in the breeze. He stared into a clearing. A figure holding a sword knelt before an altar draped in black velvet cloth. Jack’s eyes landed on the familiar figure’s shaved head. Black candles dominated the ground. A silver chalice caught the yellow glow of the black candles and bounced it over an ebony-handled dagger. A silver incense burner served as a crucible. The rich scent of dragon’s blood incense filled his nostrils.
Miles Macabre prayed to Satan and then spoke many names for the spirit. Jack stared, fascinated, but was horrified that his hero had actually worshipped the devil. Miles’s booming, deep voice disquieted Jack, making him quiver in fear. He wondered if he was dreaming, or if he possessed a sixth sense.
Miles fell silent when what he’d invoked came forth. The devil floated out of the earth, then towered over the author in the midst of the circle. The demon sported two long horns, red, scaly skin, cloven hooves, and a tail.
“Behold,” Miles cried, “the mighty voices of my vengeance smash the stillness of the air and stand as monoliths of wrath upon a plain of writhing serpents. I have become a monstrous machine of total annihilation to the festering fragments of the body of he who would detain me. It repenteth me not that my summons doth ride upon the blasting winds which multiply the sting of my bitterness. And great black slimy shapes shall rise from the brackish pits and vomit forth their pestilence into his puny brain. I call upon the messengers of doom to slash with grim delight this victim I hath chosen. Silent is that voiceless bird that feeds upon the brain-pulp of him who hath tormented me, and the agony of this shall sustain itself in shrieks of pain, only to serve as signals of warning to those who resent my being.
“Oh come forth in the name of Abaddon and destroy him whose name I giveth thee as a sign—Jack Cronesboro.”
Jack nearly pissed himself. He stuck his fingers in his ears to tune out Miles’s chanting.
Why would he be angry? I’m his fan, for Christ’s sake! Jack pulled his fingers from his ears and wiped a few hot tears from his eyes.
“ . . . I thrust aloft the bifid barb of hell and on its tines resplendently impaled is my sacrifice through vengeance rests! Shemhamforash! Hail Satan!”
Miles clenched his fists and jumped up and down. “Oh, Satan, I hate that guy! He got impatient with me while I was on a book tour and finishing my masterpiece. I worked my ass off! Strike him with insanity. Give him a nervous breakdown.” Miles quit stomping and rang a bell nine times while turning counterclockwise.
Jack shrieked while the author put out the candles with a smaller knife. Why doesn’t he just blow them out?
Miles whipped around and furrowed his brow, spotting Jack. Scared beyond belief, Jack ran.
“Hey, you little shit! Why are you spying on me?” Miles yelled. His voice was as cacophonic as that of Satan’s.
After ten minutes, Jack’s sides burned and his legs trembled. He hid behind an oak tree.
Miles popped out from around the tree. “Gotcha!” He crept around to Jack’s side. Jack looked at the black T-shirt that said DON’T CONTACT ME and the black jeans flanked by a pentagram belt buckle. A pentagram necklace with a goat in the midst adorned him.
Jack woke up screaming, covered with cold sweat. “Miles really is a Satanist!”
He sat there shaking for about a half hour. Finally, he calmed down and told himself it was just a dream and went back to sleep.
Jack had another nightmare right before he woke at 4:00 a.m. Miles wore a black cowl. Illuminated by black candles, he chanted to Lucifer. The writer wheeled around and cried “Leave me alone!” in a guttural voice, like a demon. Jack awoke in the same fashion as before.
Jack swallowed his black coffee and didn’t care when it burned his tongue. Guilt battered him for reading Miles’s books because of the dreams. After an hour, Jack talked sense into himself about the dreams being just that and got ready for work.
Just after clocking-in, he felt lethargic. When the shift ended, Jack clocked out and shuffled his feet. He smelled dish soap on himself and scratched his wrinkled hands. Jack stewed over Billy, who’d shown up two hours late and hadn’t gotten in trouble.
The warm day soothed his flesh. Jack walked to the library wearing a black Centaur T-shirt, which represented one of Miles’s books. He decided to do a little research because of last night’s dreams and clicked on the link to the website of the Church of Satan, seeing Anton LeVay wearing a hood with devil horns, a black outfit and a red cape. The other members standing next to him wore animal head masks, including a pig’s head, a ram’s head and goat’s head. Jack clicked again and a pentagram with a goat in the center came up. Off to the left were links. After clicking on the member list and scrolling down, he noticed that a number of horror writers were members, including the late August Derleth, and . . . Miles Macabre.
Remembering the dreams and discomfited by this, Jack emailed Vic Blacksmith, a friend who had edited one of Michigan’s horror magazines, Mondo Bizarre. He told Jack he was unaware of their church membership, but that it was probably a gimmick because a lot of the writers sounded like Christians when reading their stories, especially Derleth. Jack was confused by his response and assumed it to be a coping strategy because Vic didn’t want to believe it.
Well, I believe it. Jack checked to see if Miles had gotten back to him yet and he hadn’t. The author was visibly online too. Jittery and perturbed, Jack decided to find out once and for all if his nightmares were just his imagination gone awry or a real threat from a writer. He typed another message to the author.
Dear Miles,
This is the third time I’ve tried t
o contact you. You know, I bought all your books. The least you could do is email me. Don’t you care about the fans that put you where you are? I wish I’d never emailed you at all. Never meet your heroes, I guess.
Annoyed,
Jack Cronesboro
Jack grinned. That’ll show him. If he doesn’t answer that email, I’ll erase him from my friends’ space, and start reading another author, and boycott the dickhead. You know, I think I’ll go check out another writer right now. Maybe Miles isn’t the scariest author out there and I just don’t know it yet.
After pouring through over two hundred books, Jack found a female author called Vicky Deadlock who’d written a number of interesting looking books. He chose Road to Destruction. Again, it looked satanic, but after reading her author bio, it seemed she had more of a Wiccan air about her.
When home, Jack found Vicky’s book horrifying. The following day, he sent her an email saying he loved the book. She gave him a prompt reply, thanking him for perusing her work.
For the next two weeks, he bought and read Vicky’s High School Hell Girls series and forgot all about Miles . . . until he finally received a belated reply on Deadskeletons.com.
SYCOPHANT,
I WAS ON A BOOK TOUR AND WORKING ON MY NEXT NOVEL. IF YOU’RE MY BIGGEST FAN THEN YOU KNOW I POSSESS SATANIC POWERS, SO I’M COMING TO SLAY YOU FOR THE SLANDER YOU’VE UTTERED. MY LAWYERS WILL BEAT THE CASE BECAUSE YOU’RE A NOBODY THAT WON’T BE MISSED—A PERFECT HUMAN SACRIFICE.
POSSESSED,
MILES MACABRE
Jack was nonplussed; about to wet himself. Why is this happening to me? Wait . . . how does he know I’m a nobody? He never even met me! To top it off, his admission of being a Satanist made Jack realize that the dreams weren’t just nightmares after all. So this is how it ends. After years of being his biggest fan, now he’s gonna kill me? He can’t be serious. But somehow Jack didn’t think the man was joking, not after the nightmares. Shaking with fear and feeling as if he were going to go over the edge of sanity, he typed a reply.
