by A. R. Braun
Dear Mr. Macabre,
I apologize for upsetting you. I didn’t realize you had so much fan mail, and I promise not to be cross with you again. Please don’t come to my town and kill me. Peace.
Humbly,
J.C.
He clicked send and noticed that Miles was online, so perchance he’d get a speedy reply. He did.
SYCOPHANT,
DO NOT WASTE YOUR CROCODILE TEARS ON ME, YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER. YOU RAN YOUR MOUTH, AND YOU’RE SORRY, ALL RIGHT, BUT YOU’RE ABOUT TO BE EVEN MORE SORRY. BY THE WAY, SATAN TOLD ME YOU MIGHT THINK I’M JOKING BECAUSE I’M A WRITER, SO THIS MUST BE JUST ANOTHER SCARY STORY, HUH? WELL, WHERE DO YOU THINK I GET THE IDEAS FROM? OH, YOU’RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT DIFFERENTLY, SMART-ASS. WAIT ‘TIL I GET MY STRONG HANDS AROUND THAT SCRAWNY NECK. THERE, YOU GOT YOUR REPLY. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW, YOU FAGGOT FUCK?
POSSESSED,
MILES MACABRE
How does he know that I’m scrawny? Panicking, Jack logged off and power-walked home, looking behind him every few minutes. He wished he had never bitched at Mr. Macabre. How could I dare think of stirring up the wrath of the most terrifying horror author of the twenty-first century? I guess I’m getting what I deserve.
Once again, Miles kept him up all night. Jack paced back and forth until the next morning, when he called in sick to work. He not only made sure his apartment was locked, but pushed his hutch across the carpet to block the door. Exhausted, he lay down on the cushy bed at 9:00 a.m. Sleep took him.
He dreamed Miles was choking him, saying, “You fucking traitor!”
Jack awoke at 7:00 p.m., covered with cold sweat, on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He paced.
Trembling, Jack grabbed one of Miles’s books, Bibliography of the Devil, and looked at the picture in the back dust jacket. Miles was muscular, wearing a sleeveless shirt in this photo. He shaved his head right down to the skin and had a mean look in his eyes, as if he could handle trouble if it arose. Jack looked harder and saw that Miles had burned a pentagram into his forehead. Remembering what the book dealt with, a work of non-fiction about every murderer in the history of the world beginning with Cain, Jack winced.
He paced again.
Then a bunch of horns blared. It was Friday night, he lived on Main Street, and the high rollers of Detroit cruised about. Usually, he’d take a break from reading to look out his window and watch them, but fright gripped him now.
Jack stopped pacing. Miles doesn’t know my location. Jack hadn’t typed his address on Deadskeletons.com, just his city and state, so what was he worried about? He couldn’t find me if he wanted to. This knowledge fended off his nervous breakdown until nervousness threatened to consume his mind like fire against wood as he realized Miles could look him up in a phone book.
Someone pounded at his door.
“Jack, I’ve come for you! I know you’re in there, chicken-shit!” Miles’s bass voice rumbled in Jack’s chest.
What am I gonna do?
“Jack! I’m going to kill your skinny ass!”
Jack’s knees knocked. Living on the second floor, fleeing out the window was out of the question, unless he tied his bed sheets together and climbed down. He ran toward the bed.
The huge cockroach came out from under the bed and perched on Jack’s bare left foot. Up close, it looked like a grotesquerie from hell, but he picked the insect up anyway. It writhed and its legs and feelers tickled his hand. This is the least of my worries now.
Jack set the cockroach in a McDonald’s cup and closed it in with the lid while frantically pulling at the sheets, trying to make a rope. Another loud bang on the door made him jump and yelp.
The pounding continued. “Jack?” Miles yelled. “Why are you running? You can’t escape. Don’t you know that by now?”
Jack tied the quasi-rope to the leg of the bed. He kicked the screen out of the window then slung the rope out. “Fuck you! I was your biggest fan! Without your fans, you’re nothing!”
“You ungrateful little faggot! I gave you a reason to live! I worked my ass off writing those books and this is the thanks I get! I’m going to get you, you little pussy!”
Miles kicked in the door and shoved the hutch out of the way with ease. Jack opened the McDonald’s cup and took out the cockroach, then threw it at Miles. The bug hit the author in the face and he recoiled.
Jack took advantage of the diversion and scrambled out the window. Before he was out of view, he noticed the writer held the dagger from the dream. He also noticed that Miles was wearing the same clothes as in his nightmare. Jack climbed down with the agility of an experienced mountain climber.
Miles peered out the window, shaking the knife at him.
“Oh God, please don’t let him get me!” Jack cried.
Miles strained to cut the pseudo-rope.
“Oh shit!” Jack cried.
Jack descended faster, but the bed sheets gave way and he fell hard. Mercifully, Jack’s feet had been only a few feet from the ground.
Miles scowled “There’s no use running, Blondie! I’ll find you!”
Jack bounded up and ran as fast as he could, Miles laughing while looking down upon him. Soon he was running along with the cruisers he’d always watched from his window. Many of them stared him down with raised eyebrows. A beautiful redhead in a convertible waved and motioned for him to come over. Jack ran over and leapt into her car.
“Are you all right, man?” She had high cheekbones, blue eyes he could swim in, bright red lipstick on her full lips, long, red hair and pale skin. He could smell her perfume mingling with the exhaust fumes.
I can’t believe I’m in her car. I’m so inadequate. “We’ve got to get out of here! There’s a madman after me!”
“Are you tweaked?”
“No! He’s gonna kill me!”
She looked him over and curled up the corner of her mouth. “Hold on.” She honked at the car in front of her. Before long, she turned onto another street and put the pedal down. “Who’s after you, man?”
“A maniac that shaves his head, and he’s built.”
“Put your seat belt on.”
He did. She turned onto an exit ramp so abruptly that Jack almost threw up. Soon, they rocketed past a different part of the city in an upscale demographic. The woman glanced in the rearview mirror with a look of satisfaction.
“We lost him. My name’s Holly. What’s yours?”
“Jack.”
Holly smiled. “Well, Jack, you ought to come out more often.” She gave him a lusty look. “Do you know who this sick fuck is?”
“It’s Miles Macabre.”
They reached a stoplight.
“Who?” Holly asked.
“The famous horror author; he wrote Centaur and all those satanic books like Bibliography of the Devil.”
“Oh! I’ve seen Centaur. I’m a horror movie fanatic. It’s the one with a half-man, half-horse that’s a psychotic killer, right?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“I just went to Fangoria’s weekend of horrors. I met Miles there. He means you no harm.”
“Well, you’re wrong. You don’t know him like I do.”
“Well, how did you get a horror author mad enough to want to kill you?”
“I guess I got a little upset at him in an email because he wouldn’t respond to me. And now he wants to kill me. He’ll find us, too. He’s Satanic and the devil tells him where I am.”
“I’ve got a revolver.”
They stopped at another stoplight. A loud vehicle pulled up behind them.
Holly glanced at the rearview mirror. “Uh-oh . . . bald and buff, huh?”
Jack looked behind him. It was Miles. He grinned eerily, sitting on a motorcycle, revving the handlebar.
“It’s him! Floor it!” Jack cried.
“It’s impossible to outrun a motorcycle! I’ve tried,” Holly said.
“Try again!”
The light was still red as she launched into the intersection. Luckily, there was no onc
oming traffic. As a double-dose of luck, the motorcycle stalled out.
“Oh man! Thank God!” Jack cried.
It wasn’t long before they arrived at her house.
“Come on in. You can use my phone to call the police,” Holly said.
“I think I will.”
“Are you scared, man?”
“No, not now.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
Jack sighed. “All right, maybe a little. Thanks for saving me.”
“No problem. God, that fucking psycho!”
Holly smiled and took his hand, leading him into the living room. Her touch was soft and warm. Jack gawked at the lavish room brandishing expensive paintings and antiques.
Miles Macabre sat on the black leather couch.
Jack froze in horror. Holly looked at him and lifted an eyebrow then strutted over to the couch and sat down with Miles.
Miles crossed his arms while staring at him. “Why do you have to fuck with me?”
Jack’s bladder felt ready to explode.
“I see you’ve met my girlfriend,” Miles continued. “I lied in the dust jackets of my books. I live in Detroit.”
“You shouldn’t have fucked with him, man,” Holly echoed.
“Calm down, Jack. I’m not really going to kill you. I just wanted to throw a scare into you to try out an idea for my new book. Thanks for being my guinea pig.” Miles grinned. “Just gotta have a reply right away, huh? You want patience and you want it now.” He and Holly laughed. “Belated April Fools, my friend and fan!” They laughed again.
“I’ll get him a drink. He looks like he needs it,” Holly said.
“But . . . you were in my dreams!” Jack said, coming to himself. “And you came after me with a knife!”
“Oh that,” Miles said, as Holly poured Jack a glass of Bacardi Silver Raz. “I was just fuckin with you. And don’t blame your nightmares on me. That comes with the territory when you read this kind of shit.”
Jack drained the drink, and Holly refilled it. “But . . . you scared the shit out of me!”
“I can’t let people fuck with me. I’m Miles Macabre.” He got up and fetched a small manuscript from the top of his hutch, then walked over and handed it to Jack. “For your trouble.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the first three chapters of my next novel, Ingesting the Blood of the Psychotic Fanatic. You’ve aided me well in my research. It’s an early draft. Take it home, peruse it and let me know what you think, since you’re my biggest fan.”
Jack looked it over. “Wow! I can’t take this.”
Miles waved him away. “I insist.”
“Awesome! Thanks!” Jack felt like a child getting an autograph from his favorite baseball star.
Miles smiled again. “It’ll be worth some money someday. It’s yours to keep, as long as you promise never to get curt with me again.”
Jack smiled. “Oh, never, Miles! Imagine. A collector’s item from . . . Miles Macabre!”
“You will stay for a few more drinks, won’t you?” Miles asked.
“Will I? You bet!”
Miles patted the unoccupied seat on the couch next to him, leaving a few dents in the leather that soon smoothed out. “Have a seat, and try to relax.”
Jack forced himself to move his shaky legs over to the davenport and sat on the comfortable couch—which made hissing noises as he got situated—while Jack surreptitiously looked Miles over while the author gave Holly a kiss. Something’s wrong with this equation . . . seriously wrong.
“Wait,” Jack said, his eyebrows furrowed, “how did you find me?”
Miles’s eyes pierced him, but the writer grinned amiably, showing teeth. “Why, the city directory, of course.”
Jack forced himself not to turn away from Miles’s intimidating irises. “Why did you go so out of the way to prove your point?”
Miles chortled. “I’ve always been a bit of a practical joker, ever since I was a kid.” He patted Jack on the shoulder. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Jack wanted to be comforted by the touch of greatness, but . . . This still doesn’t add up. I feel like a fly in a spider web here. “What if I’d taken you seriously, and had a gun and shot you?”
“I was watching,” Holly added. “Like I said, I’m armed. I would’ve stopped it.”
“My friend,” Miles said, while patting Jack’s back, “it doesn’t take half a brain to realize you’re a good kid that couldn’t harm anyone. I mean, look at you.” Miles laughed. “I would never play a practical joke on a crazy asshole. Please don’t hold this against me. I want you to partake in my good fortune.”
Jack exhaled, filled with sweet relief. Give the guy a break. Don’t I have a sense of humor? I mean, I was a dick to him about writing me back. He relaxed. “Yeah, you’re right. I can take a joke.”
They watched a video of the previously unreleased movie made from Miles’s latest book, Depopulation: Beast-Style, and the rum flowed like wine. It was utopia. Before long, Jack passed out.
When Jack woke, a horrible, jabbing pain gripped him while a warm liquid dripped down his arms. He realized whose house he was in and recognized the liquid as his own blood. Thirst and dizziness overwhelmed him. Wood splinters harassed his back, as he realized someone had nailed him to a cross. His wrists and feet screamed in pain. Jack shrieked, but apparently no one could help him in the pitch-black basement.
A chill from the dank space wafted over him. He smelled mildew and heard water running. A door creaked as someone opened it slowly, and footfalls thundered down the stairs. A lighter flicked. It lit black candles in a circle, placed in a pentagram drawn with blood. Strange images that looked like cave ‘glyphs had been scrawled in the circle. Turning his head, Jack saw nine-inch nails driven through his wrists and feet.
Miles and Holly wore black cowls. They held out two silver chalices and filled them with Jack’s dripping blood.
“Hail Satan!” they exclaimed—and drank.
Jack faded to black.
Nil Caveat
As the fan comforted him along with the open windows while the darkness brushed away the light and left a soft lunar cover, Samuel drew from his glass of refreshing purified water and ate his delicious organic fruit bar, an after-dinner treat . . . and then looked up and choked on it.
A gray-haired old woman peeked out at him from the bathroom, which was strange because he lived alone. She grinned evilly at him through serrated teeth.
Samuel, now goggle-eyed while his heart performed a death metal blast-beat, developed chest pains and almost had a heart attack.
She slowly moved her head back into the bathroom.
Samuel, shocked and nonplussed at what he’d just seen, sat up rigidly in his brown leather easy chair. He shivered with horror. Samuel’s skin became clammy and that nervous twitch in his cheek started up.
His black cat, Lucifer, howled.
He saw her too.
Samuel pissed his black sweat pants. His mind felt as if it had caught fire and his nerves were like frayed wires.
Am I losing my mind? What was that? A ghost? A hallucination? A flashback? What?
Samuel took a few deep breaths and fought to regain control.
Calm down; be a man and go check it out.
Samuel picked up Lucifer and set him on the floor. He crept toward the bathroom, the door creaking when he opened it. Samuel looked inside, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He smelled a woman’s perfume and cigarette fumes, which was strange because he didn’t smoke.
Eyes wide, Samuel shut off the light and closed the door, then paced the floor. “Oh man, what am I gonna do? I finally get a nice apartment and it’s fucking haunted! Shit!”
Samuel had again brought trouble on himself. The bad boy who hadn’t listened to his parents had grown into a thirty-year-old bald and wrinkled man carrying the weight of middle age. Down on his luck, Samuel had grinned when he’d picked up the phone and it was the Hoboken Housing Authority, offer
ing a nice one-bedroom apartment where they sprayed for bugs and supplied a P.O. Box he didn’t have to pay extra for. Samuel had been overjoyed . . . until now.
He paced until he was too tired to continue. Lucifer rubbed against his ankles, meowing.
Samuel, too exhausted to remain anxious, picked the cat up and stroked its soft fur. “What do you say we go to sleep, buddy?”
The cat purred. Samuel changed into his pajamas and went to bed, the adult cat sleeping at his feet. He noticed the temperature had dropped, the early spring weather seeming to return to normal. Samuel closed the bedroom window. Sleep endeavored to take him.
Until he heard the voices.
Many entities, male and female, carried on a conversation in his bedroom. The hairs on the back of Samuel’s neck and arms stood on end as fear cut through his brain like a razor. He doubted he could take it and keep his sanity. Lucifer hissed and spat. Samuel put the cat aside and got out of bed. “Oh God,” Samuel yelled. “Will you shut the hell up?”
What could he do but reach into his dresser drawer and pull out a pair of earplugs? I should’ve known it was too good to be true. Samuel put the left earplug in and was just about to stick the right one in when he said, “Damn world of shit! Give me a break!”
“No!” a harsh, old-sounding male voice barked from the darkness, scaring him so badly he soiled himself. Samuel jammed the other earplug in and stripped his soaked pajamas off, setting them on the chair by the computer that was juxtaposed to the bed. He meant to wash the sweat pants, P.J. bottoms and underwear in the morning. Samuel pulled the covers over his head and Lucifer climbed underneath with him, making a game of attacking Samuel’s feet. But without claws, the feline couldn’t do much damage. The soft paws just tickled.
Samuel woke in the middle of the night when a spirit stuck its tongue down his throat.
The invisible tongue retreated, and Samuel sat up, screaming and slapping himself in the face. “No, this can’t be happening!” He breathed deeply, almost hyperventilating as his heart pounded out a drum roll. “Get out of my home, you freaking perverts! This is my apartment now!”
