Happy Little Horrors

by Reuben, David

  HAPPY LITTLE HORRORS

  FREAK SHOW

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This Anthology contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this Anthology may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the publishers or authors of this Anthology except where permitted by law. This Anthology is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously (or, in some instances names/places are used and/or depicted consensually). Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. This Anthology does not purport to provide accurate descriptions of any actual locations, things, or entities.

  This Anthology is an original work of fiction and all intellectual property rights are reserved by MD-20/20 Productions dba Wolfbane Books Productions. The stories contained within this Anthology remain the sole property of the individual authors whose works are represented within.

  Happy Little Horrors, Kilarity the Clown, and MD-20/20 Productions dba Wolfbane Books Productions are protected under the copyright laws of the United States, and are the sole intellectual property of David Reuben Aslin and Monique Happy.

  ***

  Edited by Monique Happy Editorial Services

  www.indiebookauthors.com

  Cover art by Virgil Edwards

  Dedications

  David Reuben Aslin:

  To my mom.

  * * *

  Monique Happy:

  To Jenelle and James.

  You’re the best things that ever happened to me.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to the authors who contributed

  their stories, flash fiction, and poems.

  And to the readers …

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THIRST by Tania Cooper

  GHOST MARSHAL by Michael Clary

  IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE by Michael Robertson

  JARS by Dean H. Wild

  SHE SAID by Craig a. McDonough

  THE HAPPY PLACE by Derrick LaCombe

  THE STRANGE DEATH OF WALLY THE DISCO KING by C.L.Hernandez

  SLAYER by Joseph A. Coley

  BEAST OF THE TRENCHES by James Michaels

  THROUGH A MIRROR, DARKLY by Eila Oakes

  ASHES TO ASHES by Toni Lesatz

  THE BITTER END by Kya Aliana

  INFLICTION By John M. McIlveen

  LISTENING POST FOUR by Allen Gamboa

  CANASTA by Brandon Cracraft

  TRAIN STUCK by Steven G. Bynum

  I, ENUCLEATOR (‘Eye’ of the Serial Killer) by David Reuben Aslin

  PERDITION’S QUEEN by Brandon Ryals

  Eighteen authors. Eighteen tales of horror. Enough to make this Clown’s heart go pit-a-pat.

  Welcome to the Freak Show. My name’s Kilarity. Kilarity the Clown. Murder and Mayhem is my business.

  Come on in. Admission’s free.

  You may like it so much … you may never leave.

  THIRST

  By Tania Cooper

  As my arms wrap around your warm quaking body,

  the smell of rotting flesh saturates the dewy morning air,

  reminding me that life is no more.

  You should run from me, you need to hide

  or you will end up smeared on the floor of this blood-soaked earth.

  Searing heat runs through my veins, suckling at my life force,

  disappearing within seconds, leaving me with an insatiable need.

  THIRST.

  Beauty is withering, losing its glorious colours that God created,

  now blackened and tainted by this affliction.

  Memories that once were strong and vibrant are now fading fast,

  fingers of black fog shredding them to pieces.

  I have a voracious urge,

  drawn to your bodily chemicals that are increasing my thirst

  and urging me to see you only as a need, a faceless body.

  I want to feast on its flesh and lap at its juices

  while life’s red essence drips from my open soul.

  Your blood will be my constant addiction, but I want it to stop.

  I have a feeling deep within that longs for the love inside your heart.

  But my thirst is stronger than your need for air.

  Do you still see the real me?

  Or are your eyes only for the infestation that I am,

  destined to obliterate the weakness that is mankind.

  Your blood is my vicious poison. I sip a taste.

  The last shreds of my humanity lost forever.

  The feeling of soft flesh between my teeth,

  the glorious taste of your sweet blood dripping down my throat,

  presents me with a moment of clarity.

  WHAT HAVE I DONE?

  GHOST MARSHAL

  By Michael Clary

  The sun had just dipped below the horizon when I regained my senses. If I gave my best guess, I was probably somewhere in New Orleans. However, ghosts rarely keep track of where they are. I was in a tomb, of that I was certain. There were no windows, but the dead seldom need any kind of light for visual acuity.

  I always wake up about thirty minutes before complete nightfall. It’s probably due to my status as a Marshal that I’m such an early riser. Most ghosts can’t rise until the last ray of sunlight has vanished. Therefore, I wasn’t at all surprised when I phased out of the tomb and the cemetery wasn’t empty.

  Skin bags.

  Breathers.

  The living.

  Not really a big deal, it’s rare to find a Breather that can actually see ghosts, but these people, of which there were about twenty, were snapping pictures. The images of powerful ghosts can and occasionally do get captured. It always ends up a sort of transparent mess, but regardless, the image has still been captured. Less powerful ghosts never worried about cameras. All that showed up for them were little round orbs. It had something to do with the energy they were manipulating.

  So, I donned my shot-brimmed hat and ducked behind a random assortment of small tombs. It was definitely New Orleans; where else can one find a cemetery with tombs instead of headstones?

  To my dismay, they weren’t the only group of tourists snapping pictures. I immediately ran into yet another group and after that, still another. I thought about phasing into the nearest tomb and waiting them out when I spotted the nearest tour guide. His shirt read, “Midnight Ghost Tours.”

  “Well shit,” I muttered.

  They weren’t going anywhere for a good long while and I had no intention of waiting most of the evening in a musty tomb. I therefore did the only thing left in my arsenal. I took to the air. I wouldn’t exactly call it flying. It was more like floating quickly and it unfortunately consumed a whole heck of a lot of energy, but boy oh boy was it fun. It probably took over a decade to actually get used to it, but it was one of the best things about being dead. I didn’t go too high, just around fifty feet or so. I briefly enjoyed the gentle touch of the moist wind (yeah, it was hot and humid, but weather doesn’t really matter to us) and then I drifted slowly towards the main gate.

  I touched the ground gently and walked the remainder of the way out of the wrought iron doors. There were
no longer any traces of the sun; I must have enjoyed the skies a little bit too much. It was really no big deal however; I had nothing important on the agenda.

  I thought about jumping through a mirror and turning up at the Sallyworth down in Texas. A cold glass of beer sounded great, but just as I started looking around for the closest mirror my Death Compass began to vibrate and that meant I was about to get an assignment.

  I strolled over to the nearest bench and had myself a seat as I awaited company. It didn’t take very long at all before the black carriage barreled around the corner of the street and grinded to a halt in front of me.

  The four horses of said carriage weren’t much to look at; they seemed to be decomposing. As for the coachman, I couldn’t tell seeing as he was completely covered in thick black robes. All for effect I guess. The door swung open and a smooth-faced teenager came out.

  “Hello Jacob,” he said.

  “Hello Sweeny,” I replied. “What have you got for me today?”

  “Another lost soul is my guess, but she’s recently dead and terrifying her family with some major poltergeist activities.”

  I guess at this point I should try and explain my job a bit. The main duty I have is protecting the living from the dead. One of the main rules for the deceased is that they are no longer allowed any form of contact with the immediate family they left behind when they became a ghost.

  I was the Marshal for America. If this girl was frightening her family, it would be my job to make sure she stopped.

  “Why hasn’t the BRD (Bureau for the Recently Deceased) picked her up?” I asked.

  “Beats me. I was just asked to tell you to be careful with this one.”

  “Careful? Why? It should be easy enough to find and relocate her.”

  Actually, there was nothing remarkable about this case whatsoever. This was what my job mainly entailed. Occasionally something bad would cross over, but I normally just stopped the harassment. The living cannot see or hear the dead, that’s a rule with very few exceptions. The dead however, can see and hear the living. Now, think about a forty-year-old male breather. How many friends and relatives do you suppose this guy has lost? More than a couple would be my guess. Now imagine if every soul this person has lost kept trying to make contact with him.

  He can’t see the ghosts. He can’t hear the ghosts, so the ghosts try different things like moving tables and shaking the chandelier in an effort to let the poor guy know that they’re still around. Well, let’s suppose for a minute that the ghost is the guy’s wife or girlfriend and let’s say they are insanely jealous of the new wife or girlfriend. Things at that point can become violent with some pushing, scratching, and slapping. It would be enough to send the victims straight to the mental institution.

  It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen.

  “It probably will be,” said Sweeny. “I don’t know why the Tops are being peculiar about this one. You want a lift in the general direction?”

  I looked from Sweeny over towards the ghoulish coachman and shook my head.

  “I’ll take a mirror as soon as it pops up on my compass,” I replied. “Your coachman gives me the creeps.”

  Sweeny laughed at this and we said our goodbyes. Truth be told, I knew for a fact that I often gave Sweeny the creeps. No matter how long ago I crossed over, the sins of my past were still enough to send some shivers up the spine. Regardless, Sweeny was a friend, even if I did make him a little nervous.

  I headed off in a winding sort of way towards town. All I was really interested in was finding some shops, or more to the point, a mirror. I passed a few vehicles that would have been sufficient enough, but my compass still hadn’t alerted me to the girl, so I kept on walking until I ran into a crowded street filled with tourist shops.

  I had just phased through the window of a dress shop when my Death Compass gave off a small vibration in my pocket. I pulled it out and clicked it open. The little orb map twirled around until it found the girl’s location, then it froze up and gave me an aerial view of a house on the outskirts of a city. It looked like she was in New York, but again ... I really had no idea. It fortunately didn’t matter; I just needed to see it.

  A little blue light was glowing above the map. This meant that the threat was only a ghost. In a way, it was unfortunate. I was in the mood for a little action. I snapped the lid shut on the compass, dropped it back into my pocket, and made my way to the dressing room mirror.

  It took awhile to find it, but once I did, I slipped through. It felt like I was falling at a billion miles an hour. I loved it. All you had to do was picture where you wanted to go and walk into the mirror. Traveling through mirrors was created for the Marshals. When you have an entire country under your protection, a rapid mode of transportation becomes a bit of a necessity.

  When I finally landed, I took a step forward and exited a mirror across the street from my intended destination. I rechecked my compass, went to a window, and matched the house across the street to the little one in my compass. It was a rather average two-story house, nothing out of the ordinary at all.

  I suddenly heard what sounded like growls coming from behind me and whirled around with my Schofield pistol in hand. I have a fast draw by the way, a very fast draw. In fact, I’ve never run into anyone or anything that had a faster draw. It wasn’t a growl, it was a snore. There was a woman snoring away under the covers just a few feet to my right. I barely even notice the living sometimes.

  I re-holstered my pistol, phased through the window, and floated to the street outside. As I approached the front steps, I felt like the priest in that movie The Exorcist. Then again, I guess our jobs were kinda similar in some aspects.

  I double-checked my compass. Yup; it was the right house alright. So I phased through the front door. Off to my right I could hear a group of people that were gathering in what was either the living room or the dining room.

  I looked down once more at my compass and watched as the little orb map twirled until slowing to a stop at a staircase. I guess my little ghost girl was upstairs somewhere. The blue light was still on, so I didn’t have any real sense of danger. Ghosts weren’t normally very dangerous to someone like me unless they were armed.

  Then I remembered Sweeny’s warning when I was about halfway up the staircase.

  I looked around the house and noticed for the first time that the only lights on at all were coming from the room where all the breathers had gathered. Adding to the total weirdness was that the lights were flickering, which meant candles. It’s not often I found a house lit by candles in this modern age of electricity.

  I slowly pulled my thigh-length coat away from the Schofield on my hip just in case. I also donned my goggles, which began whirling and clicking immediately. These were pretty handy, among other things; they allowed me to see a ghost even when said ghost was invisible.

  I was about to make my way up the remainder of the stairs when I recognized the voice of one of the breathers in the candlelit room. Her name was Serena. She was probably the most powerful psychic I’d ever encountered. The little ghost girl most have caused quite a disturbance if she was here, because she’s also pretty famous.

  Regardless of whether or not Serena was here and as much as I’d like to say hello ... I had a job to do. If I was lucky, I’d have little ghost girl out of this house before Serena even knew I was here. Maybe she could just pronounce that the house was empty of spirits and tell the family members to go on with their lives.

  At the top of the stairs I could hear the sound of a rocking chair. I followed the noise and phased through a door at the end of the hallway.

  Bingo. I’d found my target. I was facing her side and watching her rock back and forth in the chair. She was a young girl, probably not more than twenty at the most. Certainly she reminded me of someone, which is a story better left for another day. Her curly brown hair fell down into her face. Even with eyes full of tears she was a beauty.

  “Ahem,” I said.


  She jumped about a mile at my intrusion. I had to laugh.

  “Who ... who are you?” she stammered out.

  “No need to worry,” I answered. “I’m here to help.”

  “You ... you can see me?” she asked.

  “Sure can,” I answered. “Now let’s ...”

  “Why can’t my family see me? I’ve tried everything and they can’t hear me, or see me.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Shelly,” she answered. “I’m Shelly Mason. Why can’t they see me?”

  “Shelly, there’s no real easy way to say this ... you’re a ghost.”

  “What?”

  “You died, Shelly. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember that I went to the lake and when I came back no one could see me ... and the calendar showed that three months had gone by.”

  “That sounds about right,” I said. “That’s normally how long it takes for a ghost to become aware.”

  “I can’t remember anything.”

  “It’ll all come back eventually,” I replied. “Until then, we need to get you educated on how to be a proper ghost.”

  “What about my family?” she asked.

  “No more trying to contact your family,” I answered. “All you’re doing is scaring them. Don’t give the sad face thing, it’s not like you’ll never see them again. Everybody dies and about sixty percent of the dead end up as a ghost.”

  “What about the other forty percent?” she asked.

  “They move on to the other place,” I answered. “Ghosts end up there as well ... when they are ready to leave this place, so you might wanna think about why you’re still here, because apparently you weren’t ready to move on.”