Easter Eggs and Bunny Boilers: A Horror Anthology

by Matt Shaw

  “Fuck off!” Harry screamed, manic now, rationality thrown to the wind. “You’re dead! You’re dead!”

  “Obviously not,” the-slowly-becoming-less Bandaged Man said, his blue eyes burning into Harry’s as he spoke, “I did very much want to do a reveal. To see you shit yourself in front of me, but you already guessed. Another waste of time.” The last of the bandages came away and revealed a face that Harry knew well. It was the one he’d seen in his dreams for the first year of the last three and, slowly, less and less frequently after that. It was always the look on this face that Harry had seen inside the courtroom. He hadn’t been there to see the return of that face to church. Harry had been in jail at the time, and, despite his faith, he could never face the people of his old church once he was out. Not after what had happened, forgiveness or no forgiveness, and they’d moved to another city for crying out loud ...but his old congregation had seen the return of this face. Oh yes.

  They had never forgotten it. When it came back to church, two months after ...it, a face that everyone in there had turned to stare at as the body it was attached to had shuffled in and taken a pew at the back, moving like a man with the life scooped out of him. So brave, they all thought And keeping his faith! First his wife, and then so soon after, his daughter. So brave. Then, two years after that, after the suicide note and the disappearance: so brave, but it wasn’t enough. The poor man. May God forgive him and put him with his family.

  “You don’t have to do this, Michael,” said Harry, his face slick with tears, his voice hoarse. “Please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Think of my wife and children, they haven’t done anything.”

  Michael Ormandy had returned to sitting in the same position he’d assumed when he was still wearing the mask. His hair, almost uniformly black when Harry had last seen him, was now nearly completely grey, transformed inside the space of three years. He looked sixty instead of fifty. His face was gaunt, and those previously hidden blue eyes looked haunted.

  “It’s not your family that I’m worried about, Harry,” Michael said, nostrils flaring as he resumed that steady breathing once more. “Not yet, anyway. No, not like that,” he added, shaking his head as he heard Harry gasp at the remark. “Never mind..,, forget I said that. I’m not going to touch your family. I promise. In some ways, I feel that I really should, but I’m not a monster. It would make us even though, wouldn’t it? Tit for tat? What you took from me, I take from you? Well, you didn’t take my wife, that happened before you, but you took care of the rest.”

  “Michael ... M-michael ...”

  “There’s nothing you can say, Harry,” said Michael, solemnly. “Only God can forgive you. I know it was an accident, but when the person that committed that accident is eight times over the legal limit, it’s not really an accident, is it?”

  Harry could only stare at Michael, his mouth working silently as his own rapidly hitching breath contrasted with his captor’s smooth and steady breaths.

  “I mean ...even then ... I think ... I think ... with God’s help ...I could have forgiven you,” Michael said, his eyes watering a little now, “if you had just been ...honest and confessed ... that would have been something. But you weren’t man enough. And you have money. And a membership at the golf club where some guy knows another guy who knows a guy who knows a judge. And the fucking joke of a sentence you got ... when mine ... is for life ...”

  Think. For the love of God, Harry, think. Please.

  “You can’t do this,” Harry sobbed. “Murder ...think of your faith, Michael. You went back to church, I heard about it ...”

  “I did, didn’t I?” said Michael, sniffling back his own tears now, but keeping his composure. “Can you believe it? Even when it was just me. Even after the cancer took Eloise. Then you happened. Can you imagine? I have to admit it. I came very close to abandoning ...all that. Not just because of what happened to my family, but because of just ... how ... badly ...” Michael closed his eyes and his fists here, the words shaking and almost at a whisper, “I wanted ... you ...dead. And knowing how unfair it was that you would live, and that I would have to live with the torment of you living and wanting to kill you so much ...but knowing that I couldn’t. Because then I would go to hell.” He opened his eyes. “And then I would never see my family again. Removed from them, separated for eternity. The ultimate divorce, if you will.” He smirked, a small flash of bitterness that flickered across his face and disappearing ... and then, amazingly, replaced by a slowly growing smile.

  “And then I figured it out,” he said, and despite the trembling and the now-heavier breathing, the smile made him look peaceful. “The loophole. And how the existence of that loophole – the fact that God could miss that – meant that, despite His greatness and His glory ...God didn’t get everything right. There were a few errors. And sometimes we have to put the pieces together for ourselves. We have to make it work. God helps those who help themselves, after all.”

  “Loophole? Loophole, Michael, what are you talking about?” Harry babbled, seeing a potential loophole of his own. “Murder is murder, Michael, and you’re right. If you kill me you’ll go to Hell and you’ll never see either of them again. Don’t do this—”

  “Why did God allow Jesus to be crucified, Harry?”

  “You know why!” shouted Harry, wanting to get back on track, to convince this madman of what Harry knew to be true: that Michael’s course of action would damn him. “You’ve known it since Sunday school, and so have I!”

  “Actually, no,” Michael said, shrugging slightly. “Not me. I came to Christ late in life, in my twenties. Former drug addict. Not that I ever wanted that going around the village parish, particularly, so you wouldn’t know. God forgives; Man ...less so. It was God’s goodness that saved me from that life and His love that opened my eyes, but it was Jesus’ sacrifice that meant God could forgive me for my sin, wasn’t it? People talk about the true meaning of Christmas every fucking year, but they forget that the single most important part of the Christian faith is the Easter story.” Michael sighed bitterly.

  “Forget bunnies and eggs and hot cross buns. Easter is about Christ’s torturous, agonizing death as the ultimate sacrifice.. That horrible death of the Son of God as atonement for all the sins of man, before and after, allowing us to ask for forgiveness and to receive it. Plus the promise of eternal life in His miraculous return, yadda yadda, but that isn’t the point here. The point is that the Easter story means we can ask God’s forgiveness for our sins and receive it. Remorse again, Harry, remorse that allows the transition from sin to righteousness.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right, Michael!” Harry blurted, sensing victory, a catch, a rule that could save his life. “But if you kill me, it isn’t some murder in anger that you can regret afterwards! This is premeditated. You want to do it! How do you regret that?! You can’t! You have to regret the sin, Michael, and mean it, not just feel bad that you can’t get into heaven!”

  The gloved finger came up again.

  “That’s the catch,” Michael said, the smile now frozen on his face in a manner that made him look exactly as insane as he really was. “That’s precisely the catch. Remorse, and the Past, Present, and Future Me. Present Me is here, right now. He’s in charge, driving the bus. Present Me understands the truth here, and that truth is: you have to die. Justice demands it, and I can’t let you live as the idea makes me want to scream. Injustice like that is one of God’s mistakes--the universe isn’t just. It isn’t fair. He loves us; He made us; but His universe obviously isn’t fair. My wife and daughter died horribly and they were far better people than me.”

  “B-but, but, Michael,” Harry gasped, “they’re with God now. The life after means so much more than the life before. You know that—“

  Michael moved suddenly, striking like a cobra. Leaping up out of his seat, he reached under his right leg as he did so and produced a medium- sized hammer. Michael brought the weapon down with a sickening crunch onto Harry’s fingers, hitting them thr
ee times in quick succession. Harry rocked and screeched like a stabbed dog. His fingers immediately splayed into jagged angles, broken and useless, the skin split in several places. Michael stood and watched for a moment, and then sat down, laying the hammer across his lap.

  “Don’t mention them,” he said quietly. “Don’t mention them again.” Harry continued to scream in response. Michael waited for several minutes until the volume died down, turning into whimpering breaths.

  “If you have faith, Harry, why are you even scared to die?” Michael asked. “Is it because you’re going to Hell for what you did? Is your remorse not strong enough? I can believe that.” He sighed. “Anyway, as I was saying,” Michael said, resuming his previous flow, “Present Me knows you have to die. But the Future Me ...the Me that will have the responsibility of remorse after the fact ...that’s the problem. You see, I already know I will feel no remorse. I’m looking at you screaming like that, looking at the pain you’re in right now, and it makes me feel calmer than I have in years.”

  “Fff ....fff ....” gasped Harry, trying to speak but in too much pain to do so.

  “No remorse means no access into Heaven,” Michael continued, his voice now flat and dead. “And I would risk that, you know. I can’t imagine an eternity knowing that you... you ... lived a long life with your family ... Insane in Heaven, can you imagine?”

  “You’re insane now!” Harry screamed in pain and fury, red-faced, veins bulging in his neck. “Fuck you!”

  Michael struck again, this time bringing the hammer down with great force onto Harry’s kneecap, cracking it like a coconut. Harry’s screams hit a previously unheard pitch, and as Micheal resumed speaking, Harry heard none of it over his own bellows. Michael spoke anyway, knowing Harry was beyond listening, but going through his thoughts as if he were performing some kind of final check.

  “But what if ...what if,” Michael said, looking through the twisting, shrieking man in front of him, “it was possible to ‘game the system’, so to speak? To play by the Easter rules – God’s rules – and win?” He stood, and walked around to the back of the chair he’d been sitting on, putting his hands on the backrest and letting his arms take his bodyweight. He hung his head low, sighing heavily, as if a great weight was leaving him. The hammer lay in the vacated seat.

  “If by some chance Future Me actually does feel remorse., that’s great,” he said quietly, his eyes closed, his breathing shaky once more, confirming his plan to himself as he spoke pointlessly to the screaming man sitting a few feet away. If Harry could hear – and if his senses weren’t overridden with pain, – he would have heard the robotic nature of Michael’s speech, would perhaps even have known that this was a mantra that had been repeated many times, over and over, Michael talking to himself in whatever lonely room he had lived in for the year following his faked suicide.

  “That’s what I need. But I doubt Future Me will feel it, at least not by himself. That’s the problem. Just as justice is the role of Present Me, remorse is now the job of Future Me. I need to make sure both roles are fulfilled. My role,as I become Future Me,is to do my very best to foster that remorse.; to feel it enough to truly ask for and earn God’s forgiveness, and receive the reward promised by the Easter story. If I can make that happen ...then I will have gamed God’s system and won. Do you understand?” He looked up, watching Harry writhe for a moment, and then scooped up the hammer. Coming around from behind the seat, he marched straight to Harry and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling the other man’s bellowing head back.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you,” Michael said, his eyes wild, his voice breathless.

  “My kids! They’re not even in high school yet!” Harry screamed, realizing this was it - his last chance - his fear overriding even the terrible pain in his shattered knee. “You’ve seen them, Michael, you’ve seen them! Oh God, think of their faces! Think, think, think of those faces when they find out what happened to me! Please!” Michael nodded slowly in response, staring intently into Harry’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Yes,” Michael said eventually, “that ...that’s exactly the kind of thing I’ll need. Thank you, Harry.” Still holding onto Harry’s hair, the hammer came down on Harry’s unbroken knee, and then Michael went to work.

  *

  Linda watched the children play on the front lawn, keeping an eye on the space between them and the road. She scrubbed at the baking tray she’d had soaking in the sink. She knew she was a worrier, although who could blame her these days. The road was pretty quiet, the kids well-drilled on matters regarding running out into it as well. Even so, she watched, and the reason wasn’t only concern.

  It had been two years since Harry had disappeared. Her only light, her only way back had been the kids. As she watched the darkness begin to lift from them the last few months, lifting with every game they played, she felt it lessen just that little bit inside her too. She knew it would never go away. Some days it took all she had to get out of bed and get them dressed, but at least now she began to believe that they could be themselves again someday. She felt like a shadow of her former self, but at least she felt something, and maybe the kids were young enough to come back completely.

  He might still come back one d—

  No. There had been no body, but the police had been clear. It was a murder scene.

  But if there was no body—

  SHUT UP.

  She closed her eyes, then breathed deeply and resumed watching the kids, smiling sadly as Sally chased her brother. Linda watched as Sally’s running turned into walking, then a full stop. She saw Sally’s head drop and start to nod, making small and rapid movements that meant only one thing.

  Linda dropped the tray into the sink, and tried to compose herself as she opened the front door and made her way over to Sally. She had to stay calm and be the anchor, had to keep it together, had to let Sally know it was okay to cry. Linda dropped to one knee on the grass, pushed Sally’s brown, tangled locks out of the way of her sweaty, flushed face. Ben stood a few feet away, looking awkward and confused, shuffling his feet and wondering if he was somehow in trouble.

  “Hey,” Linda said. “Hey, Sallyface. Are you ok?” Sally’s lips pressed together tightly as her blue eyes filled up.

  “Mm,” she whimpered, “mm, mm, just, just ...”

  “Daddy?” Linda asked, knowing the answer. She’d seen these shutdowns many times. “Did you think about Daddy?” Sally nodded silently in response and began sobbing. As Linda drew her daughter close, she began to do the same. Ben started to sniffle too, confused, but starting to understand what this was about, even if he didn’t understand how it applied here. Linda stroked her daughter’s head as the tears began to soak her blouse, and wished yet again that whoever was responsible - the one who had never been caught - would burn in hell, even as she questioned that such a place existed at all.

  And Michael, watching all this from his car - he watched the house most days of the week - saw the diorama of suffering before him, and his heart went out to the family of three on the lawn. He tried, as he always did, to nurture that feeling, to internalize the pity and let it go to work on the memory of his actions. He was sure he felt something shift, but, as always, it wasn’t enough. He didn’t regret a thing.

  Two years, he tolf himself, isn’t anywhere near enough time. Don’t worry.

  Of course, he was still too close. He was not far enough removed from Past Me to be anyone else. He had years to transform before he died. He had enough time to work on it, enough time to change. To feel.

  But will you ever change enough? How much do you need? How much is enough to get in?

  That was always the question. And as he turned the key in the ignition, checked his mirrors, and switched on his indicator, the same answer came again. It was as predictable as the fact of change itself.

  I’ll guess you’ll find out eventually, won’t you?

  THE END

  Bio

  Luke Smitherd is the author of the interna
tional bestseller THE STONE MAN, shortlisted for Audible UK’s Book of the Year Award 2015. His other novels include IN THE DARKNESS, THAT'S WHERE I'LL KNOW YOU as well as A HEAD FULL OF KNIVES, THE PHYSICS OF THE DEAD and the short story collection WEIRD. DARK. (Those titles are clickable, by the way. Straight to the Amazon purchase page. Hint, hint.)

  A former singer and guitarist, Luke now writes full time for a living. He a: can't quite believe it, and b: has to remember that he shouldn't drink before lunchtime. Not on a weekday anyway. He currently travels and writes, and ignores cheap jibes about not having a 'proper job'. Follow his pasty white ass and keep up with his nonsense on Twitter (@lukesmitherd) on Facebook (Luke Smitherd Book Stuff) YouTube (Luke Smitherd) and at his website lukesmitherd.com, where you can sign up to his Spam-Free Book Release Newsletter to get occasional free stuff. He will stop saying Luke Smitherd now.

  He’s watching you as you finish reading this, and the second you complete this sentence he’s going to kill you.