by Jeff Strand
Sagacious had come to realize that all those years ago, when his unforgettable and precious friend Reagan had placed a jar of jellybeans nearby during the cabinet meetings, in his office and also by his bed side, that they actually had represented something. Something important. A reminder he had long since forgotten. Those jelly beans were much more than just a colorful, sugary treat to share and welcome people with. They were a representation of each individual′s originality and greatness, gathered together in a harmonic union, one complimenting the other. Exceptional and unusual on their own, but entirely brilliant next to one another, and necessary to be put together to accentuate their uniqueness and substance.
Sagacious lifted up a large, glass jar of jellybeans, held it up to the heavens, Then picked out a red jellybean and popped it in his mouth as he pronounced another Reagan quote to a loud, cheering crowd, ″You can tell a lot about a fellow′s character by his way of eating jellybeans.″
He stood silent for an instant. In that moment, Sagacious realized that Ronald Reagan had taught him more than he could have ever known on his own and, oh, how he missed his beloved friend.
DEAR JACK
MISTY DAHL
This letter was found April 13th, 2001, crumpled up and covered in blood, outside a Mojave desert gas station.
Dear Jack,
The first time I ever saw something supernatural, I was eight years old. We were on a road trip from the place where our Mama was having a nervous breakdown, to a place where we would live with our Grammy and Pop. It was a spur of the moment kind of operation, on account of some strange new situation, is all Grammy would say. I cried a lot that week and by the time we got to Wyoming, I′d had two big accidents. I remember we were parked in our grandparent′s old Chevy out at the crossroads before I knew what a crossroads was, and I had a feeling come over me. I shrugged it off because my brother Buddy was saying something interesting. Course he was always saying something interesting when he talked. Some of my best memories of him were the stories he′d tell. Always talking about how he′s gonna write books and what he′s gonna do when the apocalypse shows up.
It was a beautiful town with daisies and dandelions sprinkled on rolling green hills. Earlier that day we stopped at a park. I made dandelion-chains with the yellow flowers, wearing them around my head, and I used the white ones for wishing, calling them the wishing flower, thinking they were a different flower altogether; funny how something can change so much from what it was to what it is. On the way out west there seemed to be towns filled with dark somethings on the outside, but this little town in Wyoming was idyllic, its darkness was on the inside. Sitting at the crossroads I could feel a sense of something just not right. I couldn′t shake that feeling come over me, but I remember how I pined on anyway, curious about Grammy and Pop in the general store. I remember thinking they probably had dresses in there — that′s what my heart kept telling me. ″That′d be a reason why Grammy is taking so long,″ I told Buddy. I kept thinking that she wasn′t looking at dresses for herself, but maybe since I′d cut my hand the day before (and bloodied my dress), maybe she was looking for dresses for me. It was the spring of 1954, the year the Comics Code was introduced but that wasn′t until September so Buddy, who was my older brother by exactly ten years, sat in the car and read me Zombies Eat Flesh For Breakfast: Part Two. I remember smiling as best I could, listening to my big brother as he continued to read the comic, all the while wondering if zombies would bite me because I had blood on my dress.
″Grammy and Pop are inside for so long because Grammy wants to make sure we have enough food for the next thousand miles,″ said Buddy. It had been a mostly perfect day, perfect except for the blood and the boredom, and perfect except for the missing my Ma and the dark somethings. Staring up at the sky, watching the clouds on parade, I thought about everyone: Ma, Buddy, Grammy and Pop and my imagination danced. I imagined the zombie apocalypse had come and how I′d be the one to save everyone, especially my Ma. It′d been a long time since she′d really talked to me; I didn′t and don′t remember much about her. The only thing I could recall, and still recall is what she told me the night before they took her away: Be brave and just breathe. Three days had past since we left and as I sat there in the car I wondered if she was being brave and just breathing, then I started to be brave and just breathe, and then I started to cry. Buddy continued to read his book.
We were parked over to the right, and down-a-way from the middle of the road but what I saw, I knew I saw. Buddy was sitting in the front seat and had turned the car radio up so loud that I knew I could slip out the back door without him hearing me; I wanted to get out of the hot car despite the fear of what I saw. Truth be told, I was intrigued. ″You always had an investigative streak,″ said my Grammy. When I got out of the car I snuck over to the trees and hid behind some tall grass. I stared for long minutes at the bloody, torn up body that lay up under the old oak treethe letter ″J″ carved into its bark. Thanking the good Lord that I wasn′t the dead girl I sat there in the tall grass staring at her for a long time. I knew that the dark something was still coming, but felt myself stay stuck like I was in a quicksand kind of mud. Then, before I could run, they came. First there were three. Then came more. They all stood in a circle as if waiting or conversing. Then they began to smile. They wore smiles not like any animal you or I had ever seen-except maybe a hyena or a cat, everyone knows that cats are sometimes evil but no one, least of all me, would ever believe that a bunny would be evil.
The bunny, my Grammy explained to me, is the state mythological animal in these parts. She said, ″It′s called a Jackalope and they ain′t real.″ I thought about that while I watched them bunnies do horrible things to that girl's bones snapping and blood seeping, coloring my memory of her forever.
Then I heard them. ″Hey, over here.″ I turned around and that′s when I saw the smiling face of a jackalope lunging at me. I don′t think it bit me. I think I fell to the ground, passing out too quickly; that second accident fortuitous in a way. Next thing I know I′m awake, up against the tree marked with a ″J.″ I remember all them jackalopes were standing in a circle and foaming at the mouth, their teeth jagged and putrid like knives that′d been left in a dirty sink too long to rot and rust. They had antlers and bloody fur and I especially remember that awful sound; it was a high-pitched humming that I can only describe as supernatural. I couldn′t move and one of the jackalopes, who was drinking whiskey, had his face pressed up close to mine; his eyes were glass stones and they shone my own reflection. He smiled at me with barbed teeth and whiskey breath, bloody saliva running down his fur and for a few seconds, I think my heart stopped. Then the humming stopped and another creature walked towards me. He was a jackalope, and then he turned into a man — a well-dressed man with antlers. I don′t remember what happened after that; it was a kind of trance I got snapped into and let out of, like diving into a dream and then waking up too suddenly and forgetting. When I woke up Buddy was telling me it′s gonna be okay sis.
Back when I was eight, I didn′t understand, but I know now that the crossroads is a place where the Devil will make a deal with you. I never told you this, but ten years later that creature came to get Buddy, but I guess maybe you already know that. I′m sorry I had such a hard time talking about things when we were together, but I′ve changed: funny how things change from what they were to what they are. It′s been hard to bare this truth alone but I figured it was a family curse and that nobody but family should have to bare it. I was wrong to think that you weren′t my family. You′ve always been my family but now you′re gone and I′m not sure we can ever go back to what we were. You′re missing, Ma, Grammy and Pop disappeared, and even Buddy didn′t survive it. I′m sorry you got involved in this, but I understand why you did it. I′m on my way to Wyoming now and all I can say is that I miss you and I love you, Jack. I love you more than the moon and the stars and chocolate chip pancakes, but I′ll do what I have to. Maybe it′s not too late for you, for us
, for them, or for our daughter. This may be that, that may be this, and things may change from what they were to what they are. The devil may be a powerful jackalope, with dark somethings like you and Buddy and Ma, but he forgot one thing — I always wanted to save the world.
Love,
Kate
HAROLD AND LINDSAY CRUMP IN:″SAME KIND OF BAD AS ME″
BY DEAN M. DRINKEL
SLACK BOTTOM′S HELL-HOLE
No-one could explain what really happened that fateful weekend, in a normal looking house on Mockingbird Lane, Slack Bottom, Yorkshire. Five bodies discovered, all in various stages of decomposition, most beyond recognition — beaten, eaten, burnt and broken. Of the owners of this charnel house, the mysterious Crump family, nothing is known. It has been suggested by distant neighbors that they were smuggled out of the country and were headed for the Americas.
God help them.
God help them all...
Lead Article As Appeared In ″The Daily Stargazer″, February 16th, 1976
* * *
...a cabin, somewhere deep in the Douglas Woods, Wyoming, USA, six months later.
″AAARRGGGHHHHHH!″ Harold Crump screamed, quite pathetically in reality for once he′d jumped up off the sofa, he fell right back down, grabbing his spine. There on the floor, he writhed in agony.
″Woman?!″ He shrieked. ″Aren′t you going to help me? Are you just going to sit there and watch me? I am in pain damn you! Pain!″
His wife, Lindsay, the woman he referred too, was confused. After all, he had asked her three questions. She was lost after the first one.
But something else now grabbed her attention, that odd look on her face, stuck somewhere between pain and pleasure, terror and excitement.
″Harold?! There′s something at the window, it′s watching me, I can see its eyes, horrible Harold, HORRIBLE!″
This was the kind of statement that had caused Harold′s outburst in the first place. He had replied something like: ″What?! Who do they think they are? I′m not having someone stare at my Lindsay!″ He′d then dropped the bone that he′d been gnawing and had exploded into a fit of rage, but as luck would have it, it didn′t do him any good at all.″Woman!″ He shouted again. ″Help me off this damn floor! The carpet′s chafing my inner sanctum, the holy of holies!″ Harold was pouting.
Lindsay didn′t reply, she was totally lost in her own mental bemusement. She continued to stare at the window, believing that whatever she had seen looking back at her was still out there prowling around.
Harold lifted his head, eventually realizing that his beloved wasn′t paying him any attention so (somewhat with ease considering the song and dance he had just made about his bad back) he slowly made his way to his feet. For added effect however, he moaned and groaned as he did so. He slumped back onto the sofa. His face strained.
After several moments silence, he turned and looked upon her. ″Lindsay? What on earth are you doing just sitting there like that?″
It was her open-mouth and wide-eyed stare which was causing him serious offence.
Harold didn′t wait for her to come round however, he quickly grabbed his newspaper, rolled it up and struck the object that lay by his feet until it stopped shuddering. The insolence of the damn thing was winding Harold up, even if he had tried his best to ignore it thus far. Right now Harold was like a coiled spring and it was only a matter of time before he EXPLODED.
″I can′t stand all this nonsense, can′t you comprehend that?″ He said to no-one in particular. ″A cultured man like myself needs to be left in peace.″
Lindsay didn′t reply, so he scratched his forehead, played with his spectacles. He wondered how the hell he had ended up in this god-awful country. What had gone wrong in his life? Blasted Colonies. Damned ignorant natives, the whole bleedin′ lot of them! Harold thought.
But just as he was enjoying a moment′s tranquility, Lindsay screamed.
″Cease that blasted howl, woman!″ Harold commanded. She didn′t hear, she was lost in her own personal terror.
Harold, intrigued, sat forward, the grip on the rolled up newspaper tightened until his knuckles went white.
″What? What do you see?″ He wondered whether she was having one of her so-called psychic episodes, perhaps she had one eye in this world and the other in the next. ″Witch, tell me, tell me everything!″ Not that he believed her of course. But it was a laugh for those quieter moments.
She still didn′t answer, but her finger moved, he followed where it pointed. To the window, through the window...″WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?″ He hollered.
Lindsay vomited. ″I don′t know Harold, but it beckons me.″
Something was indeed outside, staring back at them. Harold couldn′t see too much because of the darkness (after all, it was the middle of the night) but it did appear that something was there watching them. Something with two red beady eyes.
″Hideous!″ He screamed. ″Yet it′s no match for me, Harold Aloysius Crump.″ He jumped up again, waved his newspaper in the air but in his excitement he stumbled over the thing on the floor.
″Gadzooks!″ Harold shouted as he landed in a heap. As he picked himself up, he mock threatened the object by shaking his fist in anger, even if his wrist was fairly limp. ″Haven′t I told you to be quiet already?″
Further debate about chicken soup was halted when Lindsay began to weep. ″It′s staring at me Harold, it′s staring at me.″ Her hand went to cover her mouth.
Harold looked over. An odd expression on his feature: total disgust. He couldn′t work out what irked him so but when he looked down and saw that wrinkly old hand reaching out from under the sofa holding his ankle, he went into palpitations.
″It′s out Lindsay, it′s out.″ He tried to break free of the errant hand′s grip. It wasn′t moving, it was like a vice, gripping his leg so tight, cutting off his blood supply.
Normally, Harold′s actions would launch Lindsay into hysterics, but this wasn′t the time for mirth. Eventually, after a great deal of effort, he managed to break free.
″I′m going to beat you within an inch of your pitiful existence.″ He screamed but before he could follow through his threat, there was a tap and a scratch at the window.
Harold broke wind.
″What is it Harold? What is it?″
He didn′t explain himself, his ablutions and bodily noises were his own affair but his eyes narrowed that was for sure. He stared hard and fast at whatever it was that dared bead back at him.
″Evil. Pure evil.″ He cursed through pursed lips. ″But I′m going to teach it a lesson.″
Harold didn′t pounce right away however, probably because whatever it was that was outside was doing all the moving for them. They both watched as it then disappeared, dropping below the window-frame.
Of the hand under the sofa, it was never referred too again.
* * *
″Has it gone Harold?″ Lindsay enquired about five minutes later.
″How do I know woman? I′m in here protecting you!″ Knowing Harold, he probably wanted to offer further explanation but he was halted in his tracks, for outside, there came a massive boom of noise.
Predictably, Lindsay screamed.
″Desist with that damned screech will you?″ Harold ordered. ″It′s probably just one of the bins falling over, you know, the bad weather?″ Ignoring the fact of course that he′d seen something out there. Uncanny it sure was, uncanny.
Lindsay coughed up some phlegm. ″Don′t they call them trash cans over here Harold?″
″I′ll give you trash-cans! Whore!!!″ There was no stopping him now, he was frenzied. All red-faced and his skin was blotchy, he emanated an ephemeral scent, a heady musk which was not often out of place in deep dark and dank places. Sewers mainly.
He put his hand in his mouth, bit down as hard as he could, some kind of guttural sound in his stomach, his tongue twitched. He was incensed, no doubt about that.
But Harold then screamed in agony a
s eventually he managed to retrieve his fist, blood everywhere, one tooth too was sticking out from his third knuckle. He was his own worst enemy.
″Harold?″ Lindsay asked. ″What are you doing?″
He didn′t answer, in fact he was completely exhausted. He fell back onto the sofa, picked up the newspaper, started to flick through it, something had caught his eye.
Lindsay stared on, licked at the vomit on her cardigan. It was quite tasty. ″Harold...what are you doing?″
″Can′t you see you stupid cow? I am reading the newspaper!″ He shook it in front of his face for good measure.
″But Harold, you can′t read!″ She teased him, laughed (or gurgled, it was much the same) which reminded him of a kitten being strangled. It did not excite him. Not at all.
″Hush that noise woman, you′re beginning to get my goat...″
He was distracted, he looked up.
″Did you see that?″ He dropped the newspaper.
″No.″ She replied. She was picking her feet. With her teeth.
″It′s back.″ He whispered. ″That damn creature, it′s returned to taunt me.″
Lindsay panicked, rolling herself into a ball for good measure.
″What are you doing? Your weak-spot is exposed.″
His so-called wife wasn′t listening, she was trying to wrap herself as tightly as possible, attempting to blend into her environment. Hoping that the vomit would camouflage her — she was barely successful.
But eventually nothing-doing, for even her attention was diverted when a second crashing sound came from outside.
″Can′t I have a moment′s peace?″ Harold screamed, jumping up (ignoring the fact that he had previously complained of a bad back). He grabbed the newspaper and a half-chewed pencil from the table and rushed to the door.
