Horrorbook

by A. R. Braun

  Later that evening, I walked through the narthex and attended evening mass with a pure expression on my face. I saw Father Malone and Friar Franklin and partook in the ritual with all the conviction of a saint. I hadn’t attended in a few months and imagined they were glad to see me, proud even.

  Near the mass’s conclusion, I hid myself away, acting as if I headed toward the door and then ducking under an empty pew in the back when no one was looking. The congregation shuffled out, their shoes pitter-pattering toward the door. I waited patiently as the priest and friars engaged in conversation. When darkness covered the room, I peeked out from underneath and felt my way toward the altar, hiding in a confessional booth and feeling more safeguarded than before. How, then, can you assume me mad? I took especial care not to be seen or heard, so I could vouchsafe the town of the evil in the belfry. For I suspected someone else must hear the tune, perhaps a soul too timid to excite a fuss with their fellow citizens and the police.

  I wrapped my hands over my pocket watch as someone stirred around in the sanctuary. A last minute inspection? I couldn’t comprehend it. Yet footsteps approached the confessional, so I crouched down, lest he uncover my hiding place.

  The strangest thing happened then. Something emitted raspy breathing, like a beast. A shape drew near the confessional, and I dared not look, covering my head with one of my arms. I could have sworn I heard drool hitting the ground in soft droplets. In this position I stayed a good ten minutes at least, sure the door would burst open and the fiend would find me.

  At last the feet shuffled away, along with the insidious breathing. God! What wretch had I discovered? And who would I spot pulling out a sinister rhythm on the bells?

  At this point, you must surely think me mad, but how could a madman escape capture as I just had? Insane I was not! Rather the witch-hunter, a Cotton Mather of sorts (though two centuries had passed since the inquisition), about to end the reign of midnight terror.

  A vexing problem confronted me. How would I be able to see my pocket watch in utter darkness? I crept out, first opening the door just a crack and listening for what must have been a full fifteen minutes.

  At last I felt my way across the confessionals. I groped to the altar, tripping on one of the steps. I crawled, feeling my way up the steps, and felt around brusquely for the candles. A loud crash! I had knocked the candelabrum over. I plucked a candle out of its holder and felt my way down the stairs and back across the confessionals to my former hiding spot. Once secure inside, I struck a match and lit the candle, ready to snuff it out the minute I heard someone (or something!) enter the sanctuary. I pulled out my pocket watch and peeked. It was only a quarter past nine. Almost three hours in this accursed booth! It wouldn’t be long before I truly went mad!

  I exited the confessional and looked about. The desolation of the empty sanctuary filled me with dread. My mind entertained the vilest sort of thoughts imaginable. Did ghosts of the dearly-departed loom in the aisles of the forlorn church?

  I forced these thoughts out of my mind and inched toward the altar. It was prayer I needed for the strength to endure the quest I’d set out to perform. I knelt before a statue of the Blessed Virgin and prayed, then stepped toward a statue of Christ our Lord and inquired earnestly for the due diligence to accomplish my task. In this position I supplicated for some time.

  By the stroke of ten, I paced back and forth in the sanctuary. Why would the evil hour not come? Lo! Would I lose my nerve and stumble out of the front doors, back to the safety of my abode? Would I put up with the insane piece every midnight, telling myself I could ignore the evil without it consuming the townspeople? It already had, lulling them into complacency so that they claimed they didn’t hear it. But not me! The evil would not take me in such a manner. By God! With all the courage in my heart I would fight and overcome the villain in the belfry. And then to-morrow, my town would be safe, giving me praise for my stolid inquisition.

  A couple of times I had to switch candles, the hot wax burning my hands.

  I was about to pull my hair out when the dreaded hour finally arrived. I was tired from pacing to and fro for almost two hours. My watch said it was five ‘til midnight. I crept through a door and found the sacristy, looking for the stairs leading up to the bell tower for, ignorant of where the steps loomed, I knew not where to search. The steps didn’t lurk there, but I grabbed a phial of holy water and a cross, thinking them needful for my fight with the creature.

  How could this ignoble fate befall a place so tranquil and beautiful? I must confess the elegance of the sacristy and the sanctuary as I headed out took my breath away though I hadn’t noticed it before in my boredom. The golden chalices, the huge wafers, the magnificent white robes inlaid with gold, the gilt sanctuary walls; the marble fountain containing the holy water, the pillars, and the rounded stain glass windows filled me with courage.

  I looked at my watch. One minute to go! I dashed toward a door to my left, and lo! I found the winding stairs leading up to the bell tower. I cursed myself for not bringing my derringer, but reminded myself that sinful battles are not to be fought with decadence.

  I ascended the steps. Not wanting to miss the start of the apostate’s chimes, I climbed with a fervent pace. A few steps to go and the horrid clanging began. I rushed into the belfry, prepared for anything.

  Or so I thought. There, with the full moon shining brilliantly through the windowless gaps to the night, a stout person covered head to toe with a black cowl stood. He rang the bells stealthily, stealthily, to make his abominable noise. Thunder loud enough to make me jump crashed and rain fell from the heavens, as if the fool had angered God above.

  “Villain!” said I. “Unhand the cord! I am here to stop this madness!”

  The reprobate stopped ringing and slowly turned toward me, pulling off the hood. My heart beat so quickly I thought I might suffer a coronary. Sweat dripped from my forehead. I remembered the raspy, monstrous breathing and the spittle falling to the floor earlier. I stuck the cross out in front of me with one hand and prepared to besprinkle the fool with the aspergillum in the other hand as I gazed upon the blasphemer.

  Horror of horrors! You were correct! I am mad! The face I stared into was my own!

  My eyes grew wide as I felt the blood draining out of my face. I trembled as a palpable terror overtook me. How could this be? The fiend ringing hell’s bells was me! With every ounce of dread imaginable, my mind shut down. I could take the insanity no more, rushing at myself with every ounce of my strength. The cowl-clad double’s legs crashed against the stone at the bottom of the gap in the tower, and my last memory whilst alive was the fool tumbling out of the belfry with me on top of . . . myself!

  It is true that the spirits of the dead haunt the sanctuary, but we may also go onto the grounds. Imagine my horror as my spirit hovered above my body illumined by the full moon after the fall to the wet cement. For as my specter stared at my corpse, only one bloody body lay crushed below!

  Emaciated

  I

  Willa Price, eighteen, laughed and partied deep inside the forest’s green. She stood amidst the hulking pines, menacing wolf howls and insect buzzing. She was far from her cabin at Minnehaha Camp Resort in Port Loring, Ontario, where her family spent summer vacation. She and her friends had snuck out of their cabins and stolen beer from her parents. Willa had provided the diversion by knocking on the front door and then running after placing a flaming bag of dog feces on the porch.

  They drew on joints Willa’s boyfriend had given them. The group of the six teenagers needed to get high and drunk, just to escape the endless boredom from fishing.

  Willa laughed after passing a joint and sucking down a gulp of beer. “Nobody’s gonna mess with me with my homies around, ha-ha!”

  The other five kids, two boys and three girls, guffawed with her. She felt her head start to swim, and saw the others fight to keep from swaying and staggering.

  Something sharp penetrated the top of Willa’s skull.


  CRUNCH.

  In the last moment of her life, Willa watched other five children gape at something at the top of her. Complete silence followed. When Willa screamed, the other teens dropped their beers and joints. Then they screamed also.

  Willa felt an unseen force pull her up with the ease of someone picking up a rag doll until she was in the treetop. She stared at the numerous leaves of the surrounding trees and the darkness of the night. Then she faded to black.

  Melissa, who’d been Willa’s best friend, was frozen with fear and tried to make sense of what she’d witnessed when she shone her flashlight on it. A disfigured, human-like giant, his knees wrapped around a tree branch, had bent down and bit into Willa’s head.

  This couldn’t be happening, the kind of thing that only went down in the movies. The creature leapt to another tree, and then she heard laughter come from behind them. She jumped and she and the others screamed again. They turned around and whimpered as the creature performed a series of back flips down the side of the tree.

  It thudded on top of Melissa, as if a couch had been dropped on her. When her friend Carrie tried to pull it off her, the creature turned and dug a sharp claw into her sternum. A wet, squishy sound filled the air as it yanked Carrie’s heart out. Like a ravenous tiger, it bit off a chunk of the still-beating organ and chewed on it. Melissa opened her mouth in a silent scream and willed herself to run, but was rooted to the spot by shock. Melissa’s sanity slipped from her as total panic had its way with her.

  The skin of the creature looked bleached and taut with starvation. The beast snapped its jaws around Carrie’s neck, and the remaining four teenagers shrieked as it stood up to its full height of ten feet.

  Then the phantom took two boys by their arms and jumped until out of sight, like a ball bouncing away from a giant child.

  In a state of panic, the two remaining girls ran into each other, face-first.

  The creature switched trees again. After breaking apart from each other, the girls’ sprints halted when the creature grabbed them around their necks. Melissa flinched at the vein-filled skin like an old man’s hand and cringed from the claws, which threatened to slice the neck they gripped.

  The girls screamed as it yanked them up to the rustling leaves with supernatural speed.

  II

  Three days earlier . . .

  “Slow down, Marc, you don’t want to break any land speed records,” Terrance “Terry” Marshall said. They practiced as veterinarians in Wampum, Illinois, a suburb of the small city of Mowquakwa, about seventy miles east of Peoria. Terry was Marc’s business partner.

  Marc scowled. “Oh relax, we’re not in Wampum. Who’s going to pull us over, Dudley Do-Right?”

  “I can’t believe you forfeited baseball fantasy camp for a trip to Minnehaha.”

  “It’s God’s country. I’ve always wanted to get away and fish, maybe do a little hunting.”

  Terry glanced over his shoulder to spot their wives—two amiable blonde nurses from the animal hospital—asleep in the backseat. “I still can’t understand why you didn’t book us at the resort.”

  “What’s the use of getting away from it all if we’re in some cabin with cable T.V. and all the amenities? No, we’re going to rough it, camp in tents in the woods by the Pickerel River.”

  Terry shook his head. “Ontario. I still can’t believe it.”

  “Don’t be such a wuss.”

  “You’re a member of a Baptist church, and you call me a wuss.”

  “Are we there yet?” came a chirpy voice from the backseat.

  Terry craned his head again and saw that his wife Jessica was still napping. Mark turned to look at Frederica, who rubbed sleep out of her eyes. She dressed more conservatively than Jessica, who was clad only in a T-shirt and short-shorts.

  Terry looked toward Marc. “Yeah, are we?”

  Marc nodded. “We’re almost there.”

  Frederica leaned into the front seat. “How long have we been traveling?”

  Terry frowned. “About ten hours.”

  Freda leaned back into her seat. “Wow. I have to pee.”

  Marc craned his neck to look into the backseat. “Will you keep your pants on?”

  “Will you not overreact? I just asked a question! Geez, calm down.”

  Terry’s face brightened. “Oh, there’s a gas station up ahead on the right.”

  Freda breathed a sigh of relief. “Hallelujah.”

  III

  “While you fill the tank, I’m going to use the little girls’ room,” Freda said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Fair enough,” Marc replied.

  Terry walked out holding a bag. “I bought munchies.”

  Crunching noises ensued from the back seat where Terry had moved to sit by Jessica.

  Freda climbed in as Marc fired up the engine. “How much longer?”

  “It’ll take us about an hour to get there,” Marc answered.

  An hour later, they climbed out, slamming the car doors.

  “Are we just going to abandon the SUV on the side of a road?” Freda asked.

  “It’ll be fine,” Marc replied as he locked the doors. “No worrying on our vacation.”

  Marc admired the bristlecone pines and marveled at the lack of noise, as if he’d been yanked out of reality.

  “Let’s start the hike,” Marc said.

  After hiking for what seemed like forever, Marc finally stopped. “There’s a clearing, and it’s not too far off the Pickerel River.”

  They walked to the clearing, and with gasps of relief, the foursome yanked the burdensome backpacks off their hides and dropped them to the ground.

  Marc inhaled deeply and enjoyed the fresh scent of the evergreen trees tempered with a floral fragrance. “There’s nothing like nature.”

  Terry frowned. “Yeah, I know. God’s country. I still prefer fantasy baseball camp.”

  “Don’t be such a pansy.”

  Freda, Marc’s wife, strutted up to him with a smile. “I bet you’ll see some big animals out here.” She kissed him.

  “Yes, but let’s hope none of them need an operation.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Jessica slipped an arm around Terry’s waist, and he smiled.

  Marc pulled away from Freda. “Enough hanky-panky. Let’s get these tents up.”

  Jessica grinned. “Yeah, there’ll be plenty of time for that tonight.”

  After spending a half hour setting up the two tents, they built a fire with the logs Marc had chopped with the small axe he’d brought along. As the sky turned black, they huddled around the flames. Marc shuddered with relief as the frosty cover of cold receded.

  Terry broke out the beer. “You’re not too much of an outdoorsman for a beer, are you? Or do you want to fetch some spring water?”

  Marc snorted. “Just pass the suds, smart-ass.”

  Terry chucked one at him.

  Freda removed a package from her backpack. “You can’t have a campfire without toasting marshmallows. Gather some sticks, will you, honey?”

  Marc reluctantly rose, feeling all of his forty years. “Break out the weenies.”

  Terry and Jessica busted out laughing.

  Marc shook his head. “And the beans, you dirty minded fools.” The beer’s urine-like taste was starting to pay off with a buzz.

  Jess harrumphed. “Don’t forget the nuts.”

  Everyone but Marc and Freda cracked up laughing.

  “Reprobates.” Marc left to gather some sticks.

  IV

  “Wow, it took an hour to make and eat supper,” Marc said as he prepped for the night.

  “All right, that’s the last dish to dry,” Freda said.

  “I’m going to put the food in a spot where the animals can’t get to it.”

  “You do that.”

  Marc and Freda sat down by the fire and gazed with wonder at the moon, fully visible in the sky and beaming like a nightlight of the gods.

  Marc grimaced when he heard
Terry and Jess having sex in their pup tent.

  Freda snickered. “Oh, to be twenty-five again.” She snuggled with him. “Isn’t the moonlight beautiful?”

  Marc mulled it over. “It’s more than that. It seems to transfix you, don’t you think?”

  “What?”

  “Out here in the great wide open, under the stars in the belly of nature, it casts a . . . well, I don’t know . . . a kind of spell.”

  Freda arched an eyebrow. “Marc, are you feeling all right?”

  Wolves howled.

  Freda jumped. “There are wolves out here?”

  “Everything’s right out in the open air. Come on, I’m feeling a little frisky.”

  “Why Marc, feeling like an animal are you?”

  “Mammals aren’t far from us.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I love you.” He kissed her.

  “Oh, you dear sweet man, I love you.”

  They rose to enter the tent. After zipping up the tent’s flap, they exchanged tender kisses, engaged in gentle foreplay, then made passionate love.

  Soon, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Marc dreamt of hellish visions he hadn’t thought possible. In R.E.M. sleep, he quasi-awoke in the tent to see a pack of wolves staring him in the face, licking their chops. How did they unzip the tent? His vision turned macabre as he became a man who hungered for human flesh. He lived with his wife and six children, and they suffered from starvation. From seeing his family and their surroundings, they looked to be Native Americans living in the 1800s.

  Marc stirred and whimpered on his sleeping bag as his nightmare flourished.

  He soon found himself cooking and eating the flesh of his son—the first one to die from the pseudo-famine—and then he turned on his wife and kids, likewise butchering and consuming them. Strangely enough, his Indian self knew provisions lurked only twenty-five miles away.

  The tender flesh was succulent, like deer meat, and what he saw himself do drove Marc to the brink of madness as he looked down upon his bloody hands and reflected on the meat in his stomach being none other than the love of his life and his offspring. He roasted their arms and legs like lambs, chewing BRAINS like noodles, gobbling down EYES like grapes, savoring HEARTS as if they were livers and gizzards.