Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  “Daddy?” Alan's voice said.

  He looked down at his son. “Yes?”

  Alan shook his head and grabbed Trey's right hand. “Come on, Daddy. The van doesn't like you.”

  Trey nodded to him. “Guess you're right. Another one?”

  “Just a little one,” Alan said.

  They walked in silence down the sidewalk, Trey fighting the urge to look back over his shoulder. The thing, no, he scolded himself, the man in the ice cream truck was not the Closet Man.

  “Scooby-dooby-doo” the childish voice sang in his mind.

  “Shut up,” Trey muttered. Alan said nothing, just squeezed his father's hand a little tighter.

  Chapter 12

  From the study, Trey listened to the sound of Alan reading his homework aloud in the living room.

  During days when Carolyn wasn't home and his son was in school, every minute was spent listening to music. While he coded, while he debugged, while he posted on forums and tracked down issues, every second was filled with the sounds of electronic beats mixed with guitars. It kept the left side of his brain asleep enough for the right side to work without interruption.

  But when Alan was home, Trey never listened to music. He knew it should have cut his productivity down, but it usually didn't. Just knowing the boy was in the other room was enough to put a smile on his face and keep him focused. Perhaps the music was merely there to reduce the loneliness. Trey didn't know and didn't want to know.

  As he went through the lines of code, his left brain woke up enough to let him know that Alan had stopped reading to himself. There was a new sound. Music. Bells. Trey shivered. He cocked his head to one side. The sound was growing louder. He and Alan had only been home for forty minutes or so, but he'd already forgotten about the ice cream man. Until now.

  The bells. They were the same fucking bells.

  That voice, the phantom child voice, started to sing, “Do your ears hang low? Do they wobble to and fro?”

  The bells grew closer, their steady shriek silencing the birds tweeting in the trees and blotting out the sound of moving traffic.

  Trey stood, his body wracked with ice cold goose pimples.

  “Daddy?” Alan asked.

  Trey jumped and turned to face the boy.

  Alan's expression wasn't worried, so much as confused. “Did the Ice Cream Man follow us home?”

  Trey gulped. Alan's expression turned fearful. “You're spooking him,” Trey thought to himself. With effort, he managed a false smile. “No,” Trey said, walking forward to the boy. He ran his hands through Alan's sandy blonde hair. “He's just making the rounds.”

  “Trying to sell to all the kids in the neighborhood?”

  “Yes,” Trey agreed. “And some adults, I'm sure.”

  Alan giggled. “Good business sense,” the boy said.

  Trey laughed, a real laugh, and his smile felt less wooden. “Yes, it is. What made you say that?”

  The boy bit his lip, a habit born of watching his mother for many years. “We learned a little bit in class. Mrs. Smith said that if you run a business, you want to get as many customers as possible.”

  “Yes,” Trey said, bending down to give the boy a hug, “that's true.” He realized the bells had grown loud enough he had to raise his voice so Alan could hear him. “Why don't you go back to reading? I'm going to go outside for a minute.”

  Alan wrinkled his nose. “To smoke?”

  Trey felt a flush of embarrassment. “Yes. And yes, I know it's bad for me.”

  Alan shrugged and then hugged him. The boy walked back into the living room.

  Trey patted his front shirt pocket, making sure his smokes were still there. The pack's reassuring rectangular contours set his mind a little at ease. He had cut back significantly on his nicotine habit, rarely having more than a few cigarettes a week. Sometimes, when he was jonesing or felt nervous, he could just touch a pack of cigarettes and it would settle him. But he knew he needed the real thing to stem the anxiety.

  The taloned hands handing out treats flitted into his imagination. The yellow eyes, the burning, crimson pupils.

  “Was just an illusion,” he said to himself. “Just another psychotic delusion my brain played on me.” He walked with trepidation to the front door. He paused for a moment, hand on the knob. “I'll go outside,” he thought, “and watch it. Prove it. No boogeyman in the neighborhood. Just another working class guy trying to make some cash.” He swiveled the door knob and opened the door.

  The cacophonous bells were positively brain-numbing in volume. They were so loud, Trey wasn't sure he'd ever be able to hear again. The white van was at the street's entrance. He watched it travel down the other side of the block. It would hit the cul-de-sac, round it, and then travel back. He was sure of it. Trey deftly plucked the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, opening it by feel, and pulled one of the white cylinders out. Without looking at the shirt pocket, he replaced the pack and retrieved the lighter in much the same way.

  It was a ritual for him, something he'd practiced in high school and in college. Before the-- Well, before the first incident. The routine had always provided that bit of focus. When he first started doing it, spending so much time practicing it, he didn't realize it was one of the first signs of his condition. He often imagined many other people did the same thing, that he wanted to be normal, just like them.

  Eyes still focused on the back of the white van as it made its way through the cul-de-sac, he lit the cigarette on the first try. He inhaled deeply as the van turned to face him. He stopped part-way through his exhale. The van. The fucking van. The windshield was...tinted? A shuddering hiss of air through his teeth brought the smoke out in a continuous, if jerky, stream.

  He shook his head as the white van traveled closer. The bells had receded during its travel down the block, but the sound was now a rushing storm coming straight at him. His mind was barely aware that his neighbors were doing the same as him, stepping out onto their front porches to watch, to figure out what was going on.

  The windshield, a black cyclopean eye contrasting starkly against the van's white hood and face, seemed to stare at him. The metal grill's steel grinned like a predator.

  Trey felt another wave of cold rise up his spine. “That can't be legal,” he muttered aloud. “Tinted fucking windshield?”

  The van was no more than fifty or so feet away, its body visible. The first decal Trey saw stopped his heart in his chest. It was of a ghoul hold- ing a bloody human heart in a taloned hand. The ghoul grinned with ferocious yellowed teeth.

  Trey's scream locked in his throat.

  The second decal was an ice cream cone made of intestines and offal. A child's screaming severed head sat atop it, wild eyes just visible over the cone's lip. A single word was carved in blood just below the graphic “YUMMY”. Next to it was what looked like a misshapen ice cream bar. Trey dropped the cigarette as he realized the ice cream treat was the blackened, burned body of a screaming child, impaled through its backside by a long stake. As he watched, the screaming mouth began to move, the body wriggling.

  Trey stepped backwards, nearly tripping over the lip of the patio deck. The van passed by, heading toward the other cul-de-sac, the music still cheery and inviting. Trey took another step backwards, finally catching the deck's edge. He fell onto the deck, his ass hitting the wood with a thunk. The world spun around him, his vision unfocused and blurred.

  He heard a distant voice yelling, but he couldn't make out the words.

  When a hand touched his arm, he nearly loosed the scream he'd been holding back.

  “Trey!”

  His vision snapped back into focus.

  Dick sat on his knees in front of him. “Hey, man, you okay?”

  Trey looked up into the man's grizzled, bearded face. He marveled at the many white hairs tangled within the otherwise black beard. “I--” Trey struggled to speak and coughed instead. Dick grabbed his arm and pulled him up. Trey stood on rubbery legs, feeling as though
he might fall down again at any second. Dick put his arm around his waist and took part of Trey's weight. “I fell down,” Trey managed.

  “Yeah,” Dick said. “You did.” The blasting music had receded but now it was rising again. “That shit is killing my ears,” Dick said. He walked Trey toward the front door. “Is Alan home?” Dick asked over the din.

  Trey said nothing, nodding instead.

  “Goddammit, I'm going to kill that asshole,” Dick said as he looked over his shoulder.

  Trey turned with him, once again facing the street. The van was passing them now. Trey took in a shuddering breath and stared at the dark passenger window.

  A pair of glowing yellow eyes stared back at him. Long white teeth glowed in the van's cabin. Trey's legs gave out again, but Dick was ready for him, taking his weight with a small grunt.

  “Easy,” Dick said, unaware of Trey's silent scream.

  Chapter 13

  The bedroom was dark. Trey flexed his fingers beneath the covers, playing the chromatic scale on an invisible trumpet. It was a relaxation technique from his teenage years. He couldn't possibly blow a decent tone on a horn anymore, but his fingers remembered the notes perfectly.

  He ignored the twinge of pain in his hand--he'd been tapping out the patterns for an hour.

  Through the bedroom door, he heard soft voices from the foyer. Dick and Carolyn were talking. He couldn't make out their conversation except for a few words. He concentrated on slowing his fingers, turning the chromatic scale in his head into a slow winding progression of tones. Up from the low G all the way to high. He imagined the notes as ovals climbing the staff ladder. The front door squealed open and then closed.

  He listened to the light footfalls on the stairs. He smiled. It was Carolyn. Alan climbed stairs like they were an enemy to be defeated, his feet slam dancing on each step. But Carolyn's steps were always quiet, slow, methodical, especially at the end of the workday.

  Trey kept his eyes closed as the bedroom door opened and then closed softly.

  Her footfalls stopped at the bed's edge. He imagined her standing there, staring at him, wondering if he was sleeping. After a moment, she walked into the bathroom and closed the door. She'd change out of her work clothes, neatly hang her skirt and suit jacket up. Then she'd roll off her stockings, and hang them as well.

  Sweat pants, a sweat shirt, and slippers. That's what she'd be wearing when she stepped out of the bathroom. He waited.

  The bathroom door opened. Trey felt the bed's surface dip as she climbed in with him. He opened his eyes, feeling her naked skin against his own. A cool arm reached beneath his pillow as she snuggled up against him. Her breath tickled against his neck.

  “Hi, baby,” he whispered.

  She said nothing, making a purring noise in her throat instead. They lay like that for some time until she rolled him onto his side, spooning against him beneath the warm comforter.

  “Nothing like coming home to a warm, naked man beneath the sheets,” she whispered.

  He grunted.

  Her free hand stroked his hair. “I'm here when you want to talk, baby.”

  Trey said nothing and closed his eyes. The warmth of her against his back soothed him. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it. The anti-convulsant he'd taken was already making him feel sleepy and disconnected. In that state, there was very little that could bother him, but it was difficult to talk, much less string coherent thoughts together.

  They stayed like that for a while, her breath slowing, fingers tangled in his long hair. He knew she was dozing and it made him smile. Alan would be downstairs, working on his math problems until he became hungry enough to knock on the door.

  Trey's son knew the routine. When Daddy had an episode, he was to be left alone, but Alan was to stay aware for any odd behavior, and check on him occasionally until Mommy came home.

  The kid was remarkable. Trey smiled in the darkness.

  He felt his thoughts slowing, turning into an even flatline. Then he was asleep.

  Chapter 14

  When he awoke, he felt cold. Carolyn's body was still pressed up against him in the darkness, but her skin was...wrong. Her breathing was ragged, broken by soft grunts.

  “Carolyn?”

  There was no response other than a slight shift from beneath the pillow. Her fingers scratched against his scalp, the pain immediate and bright. Trey yelped and sidled away from her. He threw his head sideways to yell at her and then began to scream.

  An elongated face grinned at him, glistening canines yawning toward him in the room's darkness. Red rings danced in the center of its glowing yellow eyes. Its hand moved toward him, sharp talons ripping through the fabric of the bed.

  Trey screamed again and fell off the edge. He landed on his ass, his head smashing into the wall. The thing was slithering, moving toward him. He could hear its talons slashing through the bed sheets, the protest of threads as they parted in rips and shreds. Its breathing grew louder, a quick series of grunts and growls.

  Trey held his head in his hands and slammed sideways into the wall. “Not real,” he whispered. The grunts came closer and he felt its hot, sewer breath puff into his face. “You're not real!” he screamed.

  The lights in the room flicked on. “Trey?” Carolyn asked. She knelt beside him on the floor. “Trey?” she whispered. He slowly pried his fingers open and looked through them at her face. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail leaving a single, long bang dangling down her forehead. He dropped his hands from his face and stared at the bed. Whatever had been there was gone.

  He looked up at her. “I--” Trey croaked.

  She put her arms around him and he shivered for a long time, tears streaming down his face.

  Chapter 15

  The cup of tea sat steaming on the edge of the kitchen table. Carolyn had heated up dinner for him. He normally plowed through her chipotle meatloaf, but he ate it more out of obligation than hunger.

  “You're going to call Kinkaid in the morning?”

  Trey looked up from the dinner plate. He felt like making a sarcastic remark, but decided against it.

  “Yes. I, um, already sent an email.”

  Carolyn smiled. “You think the meds are off?”

  He shrugged in response. “I-- I don't know.”

  “Dick's worried about you.”

  With a grim chuckle, Trey lifted another fork full of the meal into his mouth. He chewed with mechanical determination and swallowed. “That's because he knows there's a madman across the street.”

  “Stop that,” Carolyn whispered. “That's not it, and you know it.”

  Trey dropped the fork and opened his mouth to talk.

  “Trey? Dick said something about an ice cream van?”

  Trey nodded and began to speak.

  “Just listen, okay?” Trey shrugged and reached for the cup of Chai. “Dick said its windows are tinted.”

  Trey nodded.

  “You saw something.”

  Trey nodded again.

  She leaned forward and placed a hand on top of his. She squeezed as she looked in his eyes. “Dick said the van made him feel...uneasy.”

  Trey's eyes widened. “He felt it too?” he asked in a whisper.

  Carolyn smiled. “Yes, Trey. He did.”

  “I know I'm crazy. Brain chemistry all fucked up and all that.” He dropped his eyes to her hand. “But I never had a delusion like that. Never.”

  “What did you see?”

  The image of the ghoul, the thing's elongated face, its fierce glowing eyes, the long sharp teeth glistening with blood and half chewed flesh, rose into his mind. He shuddered.

  “Don't want to talk about it, baby.”

  She nodded. “Okay..”

  “Is Alan--” his voice dropped the sentence as soon as he'd begun to speak the words. Alan. He'd completely come unhinged in front of his son. He knew his screams had scared the boy. How could they not?

  “Alan's okay, Trey. He knows that Dad
dy had a daymare and then a really bad nightmare.”

  Trey continued staring at her hand. The hand rose, the fingers spread- ing beneath his chin. She lifted until his eyes met hers.

  “Alan's okay. He's okay.”

  A single tear appeared in the corner of Trey's eye. He wiped at it. “He's such a bright kid. And I'm fucking him up one day at a time.”

  She rose from her seat and stood behind him. Her fingers worked into the knots in his shoulders, gently brushing at first and then digging into the muscles. Pain ripped through his back. He tried to relax, flexing his fingers in the chromatic scale. The knots in his shoulders slowly dissolved, the pain dissipating into pleasure. Her arms wrapped loosely about his neck and she kissed his cheek.

  “You're not fucking him up, Trey. You're not.” She kissed him again. “He loves his father, and he understands.” Another kiss. “Just like I do,” she whispered.

  Trey tried not to weep. “Take me upstairs,” he said softly. “I think I can sleep.”

  “No you can't,” she said softly into his ear. She gently bit at his earlobe.

  He moaned.

  “You have some work to do first.” She kissed the hollow of his neck. “Then I'll let you sleep.”

  Chapter 16

  Kinkaid's office was a testament to the modernity of psychiatry. Whereas the doctors' offices Trey remembered from childhood sported white, cinder block walls, this one had muted wood paneling and the occasional abstract painting hanging on the wall.

  The good doctor was the only one in her practice. A nice, private, comfortable practice with only a single administrative assistant to handle appointments and patients.

  Trey sat in one of the leather chairs across from her counter, staring at the floor. The lights in the room were muted much like the wood paneling. He'd always wondered if Kinkaid eschewed bright lights to induce calm in her patients, or if she was secretly a vampire.