Easter Eggs and Bunny Boilers: A Horror Anthology

by Matt Shaw

  *

  Horace sat alone at the large table located at the back of the school assembly hall, shovelling stale hot cross buns into his mouth, buns that had sat in the heat all day. He sat with his home-made Easter bonnet placed upon his head, the headpiece depicting a scene involving fluffy yellow chicks and pink eggs. He didn’t pay any attention to the world around him. He continued to gorge as the other children on stage were singing Easter songs and saying prayers. Large crumbs fell from the stale pastry and rolled down his chin from the side of his mouth, landing in his lap, adding to the growing collection.

  He sat listening to the next Easter song; something about the gift of life. He smiled contently, enjoying the Easter service. This was one of his favourite times of the year. He didn’t really care for the Easter traditions or religious aspects, oh no. For Horace, it was all about the chocolate.

  Horace Davidson was a large boy for his age. At fourteen-years-old, he was already weighing in at a portly thirteen stone. He wasn’t particularly tall, and he was certainly no taller than some of the other boys in his year. He carried no muscle on his body to bolster his mass; Horace’s weight was saggy body fat, plain and simple.

  His shoulders were narrow, and almost didn’t seem wide enough to carry the mass of his large cranium. His arms were flabby and dimpled, excess fat hung in place of firm triceps, and his forearms were similar in appearance to those of the cartoon character, Popeye. His hands were particularly small, with short, stubby fingers.

  His vast paunch hung around his midriff like a large spare tyre. Despite his large abdomen, he had short, scrawny legs that looked as though they were about to buckle under the load above, at any given moment.

  Horace wasn’t a bright kid; he was the type of boy that gave the tyrants in his year a wet dream – he would often be referred to as a retard or a blockhead by his peers. The truth was, nobody knew whether there was anything medically wrong with him, or whether he was just a little simple-minded, or slow. Or all of the above.

  He was being raised by his mother; a single parent since the disappearance of her husband, shortly after the boy was born. She was a skinny, hard faced woman in her mid-forties. Her grey, curly hair pulled back from her unwelcoming, dark green eyes and thin, pursed lips. The skin around her eyes was blemished with stress lines and wrinkles – the result of many years of worry and sleepless nights. With him being an only child and her sole responsibility, he had been reared as the epitome of a mummy’s boy. She had done everything for the boy since birth, in all stages of his development, even if it did bridle his progress. She had taught him to tie his shoe laces, kick his first football, and dropped him off at his first day of school. She loved the boy with all of her heart, even though her love would often cloud her good judgement.

  She would make up for his obvious lack of intelligence by making excuses that he was simply shy or withdrawn. When he was found staring strangely at people, making them feel uncomfortable, she would justify his behaviour by saying that he was inquisitive. Her flippant attitude towards her son’s strange demeanour resulted in them both being classed as social misfits, by many people in the town.

  He wore thick, black rimmed spectacles that had been broken and taped back together. His heap of curly, greasy brown hair hung down over his skull and face like an old, smelly mop. His cheeks were adorned with thick patches of ugly looking freckles, and a scattering of thin brown hairs collected upon his top lip. The lenses in his spectacles magnified his small, brown, rat like eyes, and their lack of any real depth or expression gave his whole gormless looking face a lack of any discerning quality or charisma. His mouth was small, and his lips thin and shapeless. The excess layers of skin and flesh hung around his cheeks and chin, his jowls wobbling when he spoke or ate.

  Horace didn’t mix well; he had no real friends at school – not that he minded, he enjoyed being alone. However, because he was an obvious target, he often found himself on the receiving end of many of the school bullies. Most days, whilst riding the bus home, he sat quietly amongst the other children while they were throwing items of rubbish off the back of his head, or stealing his property. He simply zoned himself out and became totally entrenched in a world of his own. A million miles away from the noise and carnage erupting around him. He never retaliated, he simply stared away, deep in his own thoughts.

  As he continued to sit at the back of the assembly hall, shoving another hot cross bun into his mouth, the other pupils began to file out from the hall. As he stood unsteadily from his seat, he spotted three girls from his year walk past him, chatting. They were three of the most popular girls in his year, led by the beautiful Candice Smith; the only girl in the year to have a chest that was anywhere near the size of Horace’s own. She was very popular with the boys in the year, mainly due to her slim attractive face, jet black hair, tanned skin, and athletic figure.

  Horace stared as the girls walked by, admiring the view. His eyes locked with hers as she stopped walking and stared back. She gave the boy her most sultry look, and puckered up her lips towards him. Feeling his face suddenly redden with embarrassment, he glanced around him to check that she was looking at him.

  Suddenly she spat at him. “I said, who do you think that you’re looking at Horace, you fat waste of space?”

  “Erm, what?” He asked.

  Candice jeered. “Just then, stood there with a gormless, puppy dog look on your face. I’ve told you before to stop looking at me. God, you give me the fucking creeps.”

  “But you were looking at me, I just –”

  “Why the hell would I want to look at you?” She spat, interrupting him. “Look at you, you're a complete fucking mess. Come on girls, let's leave this loser to ogle somebody else.”

  Turning on her heels, she stormed from the hall, her two friends following directly behind her. Horace looked around the room nervously and felt hundreds of sets of eyes burning into him as the entire canteen erupted into heinous laughter. One of the boys from his registration class walked past, knocking into his shoulder, sending him sprawling to his left.

  “Way to go there, Horace. Always impressing the ladies,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  Horace didn’t respond, he struggled his way through the crowd, ignoring the other children as they jeered. He threw his Zippy rucksack over his shoulder, quickly shuffling his way towards the exit, narrowly avoiding the dozens of feet that were thrown out in his path by other pupils in an attempt to trip him as he passed.

  *

  She continued to struggle, which made her sweat even more. Wriggling her head from side to side, she managed to get a corner of the material loose from around her chin; just enough to give her a view from her left eye. She appeared to be laid down upon a leather bed with no bedclothes or pillows. Inspecting herself, she was totally naked apart from her skimpy underwear and bra, her hands and feet appeared to be strapped together with plastic zip ties. With her one exposed eye, she could just make out where the sharp plastic had cut into her flesh, leaving red marks. Attempting to pull her hands apart to break the plastic tie, she yelped in pain as it cut into her skin and a trickle of blood ran down her wrist.

  Wincing in pain, she called out quietly. “Hello?”

  *

  Back in the sanctity of his classroom, Horace sat in his seat, beads of perspiration gathering on his brow as the heat inside the classroom increased as the sun’s rays poured in through the large glass windows. Sitting right at the front of the class, he got the best view of his favourite teacher – Miss Fingerhut. She had been teaching at the school for a few months, after transferring from a teaching assistant’s job on the other side of town to a full time placement; an opportunity to forward her career.

  From where he sat, he could smell the scent of her musky, sweet smelling perfume. She was a young woman in her mid-twenties. She had radiant blue eyes that sparkled and emanated a deep inquisitive nature, and vibrant spirit. Her straw-blonde coloured hair was perfectly straight and dropped down to the middle
of her back, keeping it from falling into her eyes with a plain black headband. Her slim face had fresh, smooth skin with high, defined cheekbones, a small nose, and full red, pouting lips. She was absolutely stunning; a woman that oozed sexuality with the littlest of effort, while remaining natural and attainable.

  As she stood, writing mathematical equations on the board, her short summer dress began to ride up as she stood on tiptoes in her flat leather shoes, exposing the top of her slim, toned legs. Horace’s jaw dropped open in awe and he swallowed the lump in his throat, unfastening the top button of his shirt, allowing him to take in a mouthful of stuffy air.

  She turned to address the group of pupils in the class.

  “Right, settle down then, children,” she began. “You boys at the back, stop talking. Stop it. Bruce, I won't tell you again."

  Bruce settled, slumping in his chair.

  She continued. "Thank you. So…who can give me the answer to number… Oh damn it, I’ve laddered my tights.”

  Taking a step forward, she cocked her leg up and placed the sole of her foot on the edge of Horace’s desk. With her leg straightened, she proceeded to hitch up her dress and run the tip of her index finger down the ladder in the flimsy material. Horace found himself beginning to sweat as she exposed the top of her toned thighs, and he could make out the outline of the woman’s light blue underwear beneath the dark fabric of her tights. Horace could barely control himself as he felt himself harden beneath the surface of the wooden desk. After glancing up, she noticed Horace staring between her legs, his eyes quickly snapped up to hers, and their gaze met.

  She spoke to him quietly, in a soft, sultry tone. “Do you like what you see, Horace?”

  She continued to inch up her hem of her skirt, giving him a better view between her legs. Then she slid the tip of her index finger into her mouth and slowly began to slide it backwards and forwards suggestively, never taking her eyes away from his. Horace thought that he would have an explosion in his loins at any moment.

  “Oh God, yes, miss.” He replied.

  She suddenly asked him. “Horace?”

  The boy was quickly snapped out of his trance, and found Miss Fingerhut staring at him with a stern, annoyed look spread across her face.

  “Horace?” She asked again. “For the third time, can you give me the answer to number three? How many times do I have to tell you - stop daydreaming in class!”

  “Sorry, Miss Fingerhut,” he responded, “the answer is fourteen, I believe.”

  She rolled her eyes wearily. “The answer, if you had been paying attention, is twenty four.”

  Horace shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his desk. The rest of the class erupted into iniquitous laughter and cheering, at his expense. He sat quietly, staring vacantly at the board, ignoring their attempts to chastise him.

  The sound of the school bell rang out, signalling the end of the day, and the end of the term.

  Miss Fingerhut addressed her class. “Right then, boys and girls, everyone have a good Easter. Don’t eat too much chocolate.”

  She looked at Horace and gave him a sly wink. He pulled himself up from his seat and made for the exit, his mind already wandering onto the subject of confectionery. As he rounded the corner of his school block to the main playground, he crossed the yard passing a few groups of other children. He was approached by three of the boys from his year. The largest of the boys put out his hand to stop Horace in his tracks.

  “Oi, Davidson,” he sneered. “What were you doing eyeing up Candice earlier?”

  Horace didn’t answer.

  Taking a deep breath, he filled his lungs with air and took a step backwards. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he dropped his rucksack from his shoulder to the floor. In one fluid motion, Horace threw a solid, overhand right hook, his fist connecting with the boy's chin. The boy collapsed backwards, his head thumping the playground with a sickening crack, opening up a large gash on the back of his skull. Blood quickly began to ooze out and gather in a sticky pool below his head. Horace didn’t hesitate; he quickly stepped forward and began to stomp, bringing his heel down repeatedly on the fallen boy's face and neck.

  Bone snapped, teeth separated from gums and plinked on the concrete beside the boys head as Horace stood above him, continuing to rain blows down on the boy from above. A menacing, evil look had spread across his face, and white spittle flew from the corner of his mouth. The boy on the floor had stopped trying to defend himself any further; he was out cold.

  Horace snapped back from his daydream to find himself face to face with the boy.

  “Did you hear what I asked you, Horace? Don’t ignore me, you useless lump.”

  “What, sorry, I –“

  Before he could complete his sentence, the boy nodded, and his two friends grabbed Horace by his shoulders, spinning him round. Bending him forwards, they held him doubled over, with his rear upwards, his shirt tails hung from the back of his trousers, exposing the top of his underwear and his arse crack. The boy standing behind him grabbed the top of his underwear and wrapped it around the top of his hand, and yanked the material upwards - hard. Horace yelped as the sharp edge of the material from his underwear disappeared up into the crack of his behind.

  The boy behind him laughed. “How’s that for a wedgie, Horace? Beg me to stop and I’ll stop.”

  Still bent over, Horace bit his lip and refused to answer. Becoming agitated, the boy continued to tear at the boy’s underwear, pulling it further into Horace’s vast crack. He bit his lip and struggled to hold back the tears.

  “You had better start begging Horace because this can go on all evening.”

  After a few moments of futile struggling, Horace conceded. He pleaded. “Please, let me go.”

  The other boy goaded. “Pretty please?”

  Horace winced as the boy gave his underwear another sharp tug upwards. “Pretty please, with a cherry on top.”

  “Sad git,” he spat, and let go of Horace’s underwear as he released him. The boy stumbled forward a few feet. The bully added to his already toppling momentum and shoved his foot into the small of his back, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap. Every pupil in the vicinity snapped round and burst into immediate laughter. Once again, Horace collected his belongings from where they had fallen to the floor, frantically tucking his shirt back into his trousers as he walked away slowly and silently, attempting to remove the remainder of his underwear from his arse.

  *

  Nobody answered her first call. She lay patiently, silently listening. She called out again. “Hello, is anyone there? Can you hear me? Help.”

  No answer came immediately, then a few moments later she heard the sound of a door handle being turned, and the audible creak of a door opening. She lay still, terrified, her body beginning to shake in fear as she heard the sound of footsteps falling on a wooden floor, moving slowly towards her.

  A voice spoke. “Was that you calling out?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Answer me or I will cut three of your fingers off,” the voice replied sternly. “Was that you calling out?”

  “Yes,” she replied. Attempting to speak through her broken teeth and swollen gums.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m scared. Where am I?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “Please, I’m scared. What do you want with me?”

  Suddenly, the hood that was covering her face was quickly removed, she squinted painfully as the light suddenly invaded her eyes. Her pupils quickly dilated and the blurred vision of her captor slowly came into focus. The black hood that had been snatched from over her head was held in her captor’s gloved hand.

  “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

  “Just do what I tell you to do, as and when I tell you to do it, and you will be free to go.”

  “But what do you want from me? How can I be sure that you will stick to your word?”

  Without any warning, a gloved fi
st struck her round the side of the head, bashing the temple. For a brief moment her world went black, before slowly regaining consciousness.

  The figure slowly walked away. “I will return when it's time.”

  She heard the sound of a key in a lock being turned as she turned her head to the side and vomited. Then she passed out.

  *

  Easter Sunday arrived and Horace awoke early, excited. After all, the prospect of chocolate eggs for breakfast only happened once a year. He threw his bed clothes aside and wobbled downstairs as quickly as his chubby legs would carry him.

  Reaching the living room, he looked around for his mother. She was nowhere to be seen. Turning, he spotted a pile of chocolate eggs stacked up on the living room coffee table and immediately began to salivate. Bounding over he quickly unwrapped a large Easter egg, hastily ripping away the cardboard and foil packaging as he proceeded to stuff the whole of the egg into his mouth. Beats boring old crumpets, he thought.

  Taking another look around, spitting globs of spittle and fragments of chocolate from his mouth, he called out, “Mum, are you here?”

  No answer.

  Walking into the kitchen, the smell of cooking food invaded his nostrils and made his stomach growl. He headed over to the cooker surface where a large metal pot was slowly simmering away on the stove. Carefully, he lifted the lid and inhaled the beautiful aroma of the cooking meat. Licking his lips, he carefully placed the lid back down and called out again. “Mum, hello? Where are you?”

  Again, no answer.

  Horace smiled and remembered back to the previous years on Easter Sunday, where his mom had always put on an egg hunt around the house and garden. Looking around again, he beamed as he spotted a costume hanging from the front of the utility room door. Hanging from the coat hanger was a note written in his mum’s familiar handwriting: