Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  She saved the blog under her favorites and propped her spine against the headboard. It appeared that Apostle Peter had inadvertently led piercing through advocates down the right path with his self-trepanation act. Though she had become an instant believer, the thought of boring holes in her head made her queasy. Her obsession with piercing paled in comparison.

  Lost in her own musing, she failed to hear the door downstairs open and close. Nor did she hear the footsteps on the staircase. When the bedroom door creaked open she leaped off the bed, her body bouncing in a startled manner.

  “Alma, what are you doing home?” The ogre only came home midmorning when rain shut down his boss’s logging operation. Kelly looked out the window. Not one sliver of gray marred the perfect blue sky.

  Alma wore a white dirt stained Hanes shirt and a troubling expression on his face.

  “No work today?” Kelly asked in a tentative voice.

  Alma glared at her. “No school? What, is it some holiday I’m not aware of?”

  “Not feeling good.” It wasn’t a lie. Alma’s sudden appearance started a tremor in her stomach. The metallic taste of fear coated her tongue. She recognized the desire mixed with self-loathing darting through his eyes. His disheveled hair and the sweaty sheen on his unshaven cheeks revealed that he had been wrestling with improper desires on the drive home.

  “Sorry you’re not feeling good. I’m glad you’re here, though.”

  Bet you are you pervert. Kelly couldn’t voice such sentiments aloud, not without risking a boot to her ribs or a fist to her gut.

  She noticed him looking her over. He nodded approval. She guessed her pajama bottoms and Dr. Acula T-shirt were more to his taste than the Goth attire she always tried to wear when he was around.

  Kelly looked away, perturbed. She pulled out her faux leather five buckle boots. “I was just getting ready to change. Do you mind?”

  “Actually, I think I’ll watch.”

  Alarm bells went off in her head as he took a seat on the bed, planting his filthy logging boots dead center on her pentacle area rug. He ogled her and her stomach did flips.

  Trembling, she fished her Goth Lolita outfit out of the drawer, hoping it would drive him away as it usually did. “I’m going to wear this.”

  Shrugging his shoulders as if to say ‘fine by me’, Alma leaned back against the headboard.

  Her cell phone belted out a Slipknot ring tone. Grateful for the interruption, she grabbed the phone before Alma could react. “Trish. Nice to hear from you. I’m so glad you called.”

  Kelly heard Alma snapping his fingers. She turned and he held out his hand.

  “Look, Trish, It’s a bad time. I can’t talk right now.” Reluctantly, she tossed the phone to Alma.

  He caught it and as soon as he had it cupped in his hand he flung it against the wall. The battery pack broke loose, flying towards the window while the phone’s main housing dropped straight to the floor.

  He sat on the bed as fidgety as a prepubescent at his first peep show. A suffocating panic rose from the pit of her stomach. The ogre’s presence in her room was a bad omen. Everything felt wrong, as if the entire defense she had erected in the past five years was turning on its head. By watching her dress, Alma was crossing a line. What would stop him from crossing others? She had an inkling this little fashion show might turn into something much worse.

  All her attempts to calm herself failed. She even tried summoning the dark ink blot she had seen in her mind’s eye when she and Trish had performed the experiment with the chain link necklaces.

  “What are we waiting for?” the ogre asked, wringing his hands in anticipation. “Jump to it.”

  She fought back tears, refusing to let him see her cry. Unfolding her striped stockings, she pleaded her subconscious to open up and allow her entry.

  Her silent pleas solicited no response. Agony tore through her stomach like a plunging blade and shackles constricted her heart, squeezing it until she feared it would burst. She could not recall ever feeling such acute dread. She wanted to scream, wanted to rip her hair from her head like a caged bird plucking out his feathers.

  “Come on, Kelly. Snap to it. Where’s my little Goth Lolita? “

  A fleeting thought crossed Kelly’s mind and she acted on it without giving it much consideration. Lowering her head, she pushed a pinkie finger through the hoop of her lip ring. She curled the tip of her finger and yanked with all her strength.

  The piercing tore loose without any real resistance. Blood trickled down her chin and pain swept over her like a monsoon flash flood.

  Waves of anguish crashed over her body and sent nerve explosions to her brain. Still, her subconscious failed to save her. No lightning static, no dark filaments swelling up to enfold her.

  By the time she finished putting on the outfit, completing it by opening the petite pink parasol, the pain had subsided to a tolerable dull roar. With the hope of escaping through a door into her inner conscious dashed to pieces she latched onto another possibility.

  She turned and jutted her jaw. She hoped the shredded meat on her lip would be a turn off, but it did not deter him one bit. The ogre grinned.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “I think it needs some of that corpse looking lipstick you’re so fond of.”

  Afraid of ignoring the absurd request, she took to the suggestion, her fingers shaking as she worked the lipstick tube.

  No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t find a safe zone. Fear and terror littered every corner in her mind, as if she wandered down the hallways of a haunted mansion where spooks and demons took every opportunity to lunge out at you from the shadows.

  She heard a voice, probably the ogre’s, but it came across faint, as if spoken from afar. When she looked he still sat on the bed only a few feet away. Her eyes began to swim in her head. Alma’s face danced in circles. She fought to focus her vision.

  “To think I never saw the beauty in this before,” he said as she stood before him, her Gothic Lolita outfit complete.

  Those words did her in. Her vision went dark and she fainted.

  Kelly woke up a few hours later feeling a little better, her mind more settled, her emotions somewhat regulated.

  Alma had kept his grimy hands to himself. However, there were different types of rapes than physical ones. Listening to the ogre’s comments while she dressed felt every bit as nasty as if he had touched her with his logger stained hands. True, he had spared her body, but not her mind.

  Straining her ears, she recognized the snarling snores from across the hall. As much as she desired to slit the ogre’s throat while he slept, she could not bring herself to do it.

  Why was she so passive? She felt numb, broken.

  She saw blood on the pillow. Reaching up she felt the patch of gauze bandaging her lip. She had stopped the bleeding before going to bed, but seepage from the wound had spilled onto her pillow and sheets while she slept. She might need stitches.

  Still wearing the Goth Lolita outfit she vowed to never take it off again. She would wear it forever just as she wore her piercings. Just as each piercing served as a memorial to a painful event, now the Goth Lolita attire would do the same; advertising to the world that her life was nothing but glorified crap in a bucket.

  The outfit seemed a little unbalanced. It needed something to offset its ominous tone. She had just the thing. She fished her mother’s massive silver Judeo-Christian cross out of a dresser drawer. She had taken it as a keepsake after her mother’s death. She placed the necklace around her neck, the perfect accessory to compliment the Gothic Lolita look; a dash of good to counter the darkness.

  She thought of silly Willy. He always listened, always gave her the proverbial shoulder to cry on. It didn’t matter to him that she found tattooing repulsive. He admired her single-minded devotion to piercing as she admired his dedication to the art of tattooing. Their need to remain purists in their respective fields drew them together like metal to a magnet.

  There was, however, some
thing paradoxical about his devotion to tattoos. He always gave evasive answers when asked why he chose certain designs. Most people had definite reasons for their choices. For example, Cindy Westbrook, a fellow classmate knew beyond a doubt why she chose to have a winged angel tattooed near the top of her shoulder.

  Her brother died in a car crash at the young age of fifteen. Soon after, her dad lost his high tech job with Intel and with the financial troubles that ensued, her mother found the answers in the arms of her wealthy doctor. Considering her string of bad luck, Cindy decided she could use a guardian angel looking over her shoulder. Made sense.

  However, William never gave such definitive answers. His replies always lacked substance; “I like how it looks” or “I’ve always been fascinated by dragons”.

  Also, for someone so passionate about tattooing, his dermagraphics remained sparse. She could only recall around fifteen to twenty tats, leaving a lot of skin ink free. He was by no means Ray Bradbury’s illustrated man.

  Oh well. She figured he was entitled to his share of secrets. It didn’t change the fact that she often felt attracted to him. She recalled the strange desire to lick the Mara tattoo. It didn’t surprise her. She wouldn’t be human if she didn’t feel some sexual attraction towards the one person in the world who offered her the most reassurance and comfort.

  Rolling onto her side, Kelly spotted the AA tract next to the lamp on her nightstand. Intrigued, she picked it up the odd piece of literature.

  She leafed through it, taking note of the Subliminals; the alien head in the mountain, the face of the devil in Jesus’ hair. The hidden illustrations led her thoughts to Justin Vandermeer, a fellow loner fighting his own demons. She smiled, rolled up the brochure and slid it into the waistband of her black ruffled miniskirt.

  She allowed her head to sink deeper into the fluffy pillows. Still exhausted from the ogre’s mind rape, her eyelids grew heavy with sleep. She let them fall shut and slipped into the oblivion of sleep.

  However, sweet sleep did not cooperate that afternoon. Troubling imagery swirled in her head like a dangerous river whirlpool trying to pull her under. As the pictures revolved, some would rear their heads out of the chaotic muck, giving her glimpses of half formed monstrosities that would dissolve back into the whirlpool before she could get a good fix on what they were.

  One image struggled free from the mental eddy and drifted to the forefront of her mind. She recognized the flowing robe and the holes in the outstretched palms. However, any further resemblance to the stigmata ended there. Instead of gentle imploring eyes and a bearded face, the dream image sported a bald bulbous head with black oval, lidless eyes.

  The Christian-extraterrestrial hybrid dream jolted Kelly out of her sleep. Her eyes shot open. She tried sitting up, but her body failed to respond. Something held her to the bed like a pinned butterfly.

  Panic infused her veins. Had Alma returned to finish what he had started? Was he that intent on ushering in her complete destruction?

  She willed herself to move but her arms and legs refused as if they were made of granite, not flesh and bone.

  She remembered this. It wasn’t Alma. The Sleep Crusher had returned.

  The same suffocating pressure as before compressed her rib cage. She tried screaming, but an invisible hand clamped over her mouth stifled the effort. An insistent tapping started at the base of her skull.

  The paralysis was too strong to outmatch. She decided to wait it out and gradually her panic subsided.

  Was the Sleep Crusher another sign; an incorporeal guide sent to show her the way? All she needed to do was accept the offer. She couldn’t talk, though. She couldn’t extend a hand. She couldn’t get up and follow.

  The tapping on her skull continued.

  Knock, knock. Did it want in or out? No way to tell. Whatever it wanted, she would gladly accept. She remained prone on the bed, her thoughts requesting whatever force worked its magic here to take her away.

  As if responding to her thoughts the Sleep Crusher experience stopped as suddenly as it had started. The dead weight lifted off her breasts, control of her limbs returned and the incessant skull tapping receded.

  A soothing breeze, carrying with it the scent of late autumn blossoms, drifted through the cracked bedroom window, reestablishing a sense of normalcy. The sun had passed over to the west side of the house, leaving the room in soft shade.

  Though things had returned to normal, Kelly had not. She felt cheated out of a perfect opportunity. The Sleep Crusher had left without her. Why? Had she not made her desire clear enough? What could she have done different?

  Kelly unleashed a stream of tears into her bloodstained pillow. Life was so unfair. Amongst the torrent of tears, however, she found the resolve to go on. The latest episode with her stepfather made her more determined than ever to pierce through. She would find a way, and she believed Peter Halvorson was the key.

  Apostle Peter and his trepanning. If the inhabitants of the piercing through realm wanted an extreme sign of devotion, Kelly could think of nothing more indicative of unfaltering dedication than drilling holes in your head.

  As the tears slowed, leaving wet trails on her cheeks, she managed a smile. In spite of the day’s tragedies she felt one step closer to her goal, thanks to Apostle Peter.

  Chapter 10: Extraction

  “It was one of your buddies, or you yourself,” Lorenzo shouted. He slammed his fist on William’s illustrated desk. “Just fess up. At least have the balls to take credit for it.”

  “Back off Zo.” William pointed a finger in Lorenzo’s furious face. He didn’t appreciate the unsubstantiated accusations, although he did applaud whoever had tagged his competitor’s quaint little tat shop. After hearing the rumors, William had walked over to Fashion Tattoos & Piercing to take a look. Sure enough, spray painted in bold colorful letters across Lorenzo’s pristine windows was two words; FAGGOT and PUSSYFOOTER.

  “Don’t call me Zo. I know you told your little Goth buddy to throw that paperweight through my window. You set her up for that and you set her up to deface my windows.”

  “Take your conspiracy theories and shove it. You’re so paranoid, ever since that article. Everybody’s out to get the tattoo emperor. Relax.”

  Lorenzo performed a comical spin on the heels of his Rockport shoes like a pirouetting ballerina, shaking his clenched fists.

  Humored by the silly twirl, William plopped down on the office chair. He nonchalantly leafed through the black magic tattoo book. “Look, Zo, I don’t have time for this ridiculous game.”

  Lorenzo’s anger dropped a couple notches. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his fleece button up sweater. “Okay, fine. I’ll make a deal. I’ll spare you if you agree to turn Little Miss Morbid in. Tell her she has twenty-four hours to go to the cops.”

  “Spare me from what? You don’t have a shred of evidence, on her or me. Just let it go.”

  “Twenty-four hours. If she doesn’t do it herself, I will.”

  Their eyes met like two mountain goats ready to lock horns. William curled the side of his upper lip and shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Lorenzo turned for the exit. “Nice shirt idiot.”

  William watched him go. He marveled at how many times people commented on his shirts. He supposed the I’d Rather Be Waterboarding slogan slapped across the front of his red T-shirt was bound to get a reaction, especially in an occupation that predominantly attracted liberals. He didn’t endorse that particular torture method either, but he enjoyed getting under people’s skin.

  He wondered what Kelly was up to. Earlier, just as he had opened Inkenstein for business, enthusiasm from Sodom’s Sideshow had still exuded from her like the stench from one’s pores after a garlicky meal. She talked a few minutes about Cat Whiskers and Peter What’s His Face before heading home.

  Fearing she might act upon that enthusiasm, he had spent his downtime rereading the black magic tattoo manual. The book read more like a catalogue than a manual, listing tons of b
lack magic tattoos created over the centuries with a brief description of their origins. The book also contained lots of cultural history on tribes and societies that had enlisted the power of black magic tattoos in the past. However, when it came to specific guidelines on how to activate the power infused ink the book fell way short.

  What was he missing?

  If the cursed book couldn’t reveal how to activate the dormant ink, William knew somebody who could. Determined to get answers he closed shop, not lamenting the few customers he might lose on a slow Thursday afternoon, and headed for Chinatown.

  He came within fifty feet of Old Town Pizza when he heard the first shriek. He stopped in his tracks and cocked his head. It came again; this time the wail so high pitched he questioned whether the source was of this world.

  Following the unearthly sound, he shot into the narrow passage next to the pizza parlor and ended up at the three yen and yang tapestries. Indeed, the shrieking originated from the Chinese herb shop. From inside he heard something thrashing about and human groaning that sounded muffled, perhaps by a hand or a gag cloth.

  Christ in a bucket. What on earth, or for that matter hell, was happening?

  “Mister Chung! Do you need help?”

  No answer.

  William parted the tapestries and banged on the weathered wooden door. “Chung?”

  Still no answer, only intermittent groans punctuated by ear-piercing shrieks.

  He turned the door handle. Locked. He rapped on the wood four more times to no avail.

  A fresh wail sliced the air. William got a running start and kicked out with his right leg. The worn wood proved healthier than it looked, not budging an inch. He tried one more time, his reward a sharp pain that shot up his ankle into his knee.

  Retreating down the cramped outdoor corridor, William entered Old Town Pizza. The lunch hour crowd had already vacated the premises. Only two men remained, business chaps who lounged in the murky interior, content to fritter the early afternoon away with frothy pints of beer. A young Caucasian man with blond ropy Jamaican braids tended the counter, counting money from a till.