Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  My eyes swim to a picture on a bookcase.

  Monica, smiling, always smiling...

  I’ll find you, she seems to say.

  I take a deep breath and smile back.

  Vegetarians Don’t Bite

  by Jack Bantry

  Jack Bantry is the editor of Splatterpunk Zine. He works as a postman and resides in a small town at the edge of the North York Moors

  Tommy pulled into the farmyard, parked up the battered red post van and climbed out. Normally he put the mail in a post box on the corner of the house, but today he had a parcel.

  He knocked on the back door.

  No answer.

  He tried the shed.

  Most people in the sticks preferred having their parcels leaving so they didn’t have to drive to the sorting office to pick them up. The shed door was locked. He didn’t normally do this round and he was unfamiliar with the usual hiding place.

  At the end of the yard was a stable. On a gate leading to the stable a sign proclaimed: MY DOG IS NOT A VEGETARIAN. He pulled out his mobile phone and took a photo.

  Cool. Tommy’s friend, Mike, was vegan. He was going to post the photo on Mike’s Facebook page.

  The stable had a split door, allowing a horse to see out. The top half of the door was open and Tommy peered inside. A German shepherd jumped up, barking and snapping its jaws, sharp claws scrambling at the wooden door, as it tried to clamber over at the postman. Tommy nearly messed his pants.

  He fell back and hit his thigh on a wheelbarrow, the handle deadened his leg.

  “Bloody dogs,” he said aloud.

  His heart hammered in his chest.

  Tommy had dropped the parcel in the commotion.

  He picked it up, limped over to the back door of the farmhouse and rubbed his injured thigh with his free hand. Probably bruise up good.

  Tommy hated dogs.

  He wrote out a card, posted it, and chucked the parcel in the back of the van. They’d have to go and collect it themselves.

  Tommy climbed back into the van and looked at the pile of letters wrapped in an elastic band on the passenger seat, next stop High Lodge.

  He drove through the dense woodland climbing into the hills.

  High Lodge was nice and easy. The gate was kept locked so he couldn’t go up the long driveway to the house. They didn’t like visitors, he imagined them shooting at trespassers. He stopped the van, ran up a slight incline to the gate and put the letters in a mounted green box.

  He heard a tractor further down the road, he didn’t want to get stuck behind that, so he raced back down to the van, jumped in, and screeched out in front of the John Deere.

  He turned off the main road and drove down a bumpy track, trees on either side, to Hood Farm.

  There were huge craters in the road, but that didn’t stop Tommy racing down to the farm. He jumped out of his seat when the van hit the potholes. Hood Farm was a real mess. Rusted farm machinery scattered the yard. The barns had tiles missing from the roofs and doors hung off hinges.

  He walked across the cracked concrete yard towards the farmhouse, stepped over weeds shooting through the cracks. The delivery point was the letterbox in the front door.

  He kept an eye on the garden just in case a dog came out. A tough-looking muscular English terrier-type trotted out of the barn. It spotted Tommy, growled and ran at him.

  He’d never seen the dog before, and because of its aggressiveness Tommy slowly backed away, never taking his eyes off the beast.

  The mutt charged forward, head down, barking.

  Tommy looked around for something he could use to defend himself. The thin bank statements would do little use. He could do with a good sized catalogue, or a horse whip, or a fucking baseball bat! The dog came in close and Tommy kicked at it. His foot whooshed through the air, missed the dog’s head. The dog lunged forward, went for Tommy’s calf. He panicked, got his feet in a muddle and almost tripped. As he tried to keep upright, the dog bit him on the right buttock. It got a good mouthful sending pain searing through Tommy’s butt-cheek. He instinctively struck it with the side of his fist, right on the nose. The dog let go of Tommy’s ass and shook off the blow. Spittle flew from its mouth. Tommy was running on adrenaline. He backed up to the van, feigned to attack the dog, then quickly opened the door behind him and scrambled inside, to safety.

  Goddammit. His heart raced. What was it with bloody dogs today?

  Tommy felt his ass, inspected the damage and winced at the pain. He was sure to have a giant purple hickey on his butt-cheek when he got home.

  He looked out of the window, the dog barked wildly at the van door. He still had the letters screwed up in his hand.

  Sod ‘em. They can wait ‘til tomorrow for their mail.

  He put the van in gear and left the dog behind.

  * * *

  The next morning Tommy phoned in sick. He had a great big bite mark on his ass and it hurt like hell.

  The following day he went back in to work and all the other posties took the piss.

  Tommy stayed on his own round for the next week and the dog bite steadily improved. He kept monitoring it in the full-length bedroom mirror after his evening shower.

  The small bruise on his leg from the wheelbarrow went unnoticed.

  * * *

  Dave Hill walked from the barn at the back of the farm. He’d been topping up the oil in the tractor. It sounded like the dog was barking. The cats were probably sat on the stable roof tormenting it.

  Might as well fill up the water bowl.

  He could see the red post van parked in the front yard. The post box was on the other side of the house near the kitchen.

  “Come on boy. Are the cats teasing you?”

  The little buggers were too quick for the big German shepherd.

  He got to the fence that adorned the sign. His dog wasn’t a vegetarian. And God help any thieving bastard that tried to trespass on his farm.

  He looked over and gasped in horror.

  Fear gripped his intestines and squeezed hard. His stomach lurched.

  Dave Hill turned away from the horror and puked on his work boots.

  Beyond the fence the young postman feasted on the dog. He chewed at the tough, uncooked meat. Foaming at the mouth, fresh blood smeared his face. He had a wild, crazy look in his eyes.

  The postman wasn’t a vegetarian, thought Dave, before he passed out.

  End

  The Kid in the

  Werewolf Mask

  By Tom Martin

  Tom Martin isn’t a writer. He dabbles, but he’s an artist by trade and fiddles in music as well. He writes the music for and performs in a successful metal band called Lich King, but successful metal bands don’t make money these days. So, he’s going to keep making different kinds of things until one of them works out.

  Tom enjoys short stories, comic art, horrible food and futurism. He’s currently entering Round 3 of a short story competition and he swears to God, if he loses to the sad sack pity-porn emo story he’s up against, he’s just going to stomp around and destroy everything.

  Tom lives in Massachusetts with his dog Penny, who could give a damn.

  The kid walked through the doors of the store, and walked with a purpose. She strode in that way children have when they know where they’re going. Arms stiff at her sides, moving at a good clip, head not turning to see the displays as she passed. All business. She arrowed right at the first bank of logo-festooned end caps and then left again at aisle fifteen.

  This was the aisle with all the Halloween decorations in it. She knew exactly where it had been because she had visited this store several times this season, along with many others in town. What made this store special was that she had found her chosen costume here, and today was her day to pick it up.

  Fifteen dollars in varying increments of bills and coins were crumpled loosely in her right coat pocket. On the walk to the store, she had often reached in to squeeze the money and make sure it was all still there. Th
is was the only costume money she had been able to squeeze out of Mommy and today, the twenty-seventh of October, was finally the blessed day. She had placed the money in the pocket of her lavender coat and set out for the Schaddman’s store two blocks and three roads away.

  She stopped at the masks. The mask on which she had decided was still here, still where she had replaced it after studying it for imperfections on her last visit. The mask remained perfect and she took a moment to appreciate the gravity of the occasion. Here was the perfect Halloween mask, the perfect Halloween costume, and she had the money to purchase it. She would pay for the mask at the cash register and then she would own it.

  The idea was too big to take in, still, so the kid continued to study the mask. It was a very fine latex and polyester werewolf mask. Its snarl as it hung on the Schaddman’s peg was comical- the werewolf seemed to be sneering at her, saying “What, are you kidding me?” like some comedian on a stage.

  The kid stifled a giggle.

  She knew that when the mask was on and worn correctly, the funny look on its face would vanish. The latex, unfolded, would take on a very menacing air, one the kid knew was the essence of a great Halloween costume. Frightening and - had she known the word - elemental.

  Great tufts of kinked brown fur sprouted from the sides and top of the werewolf’s face. The photo on the hangtag showed the fur in a more orderly fashion, but the kid knew that carefully brushed fur was not the way to go. The fur looked perfect as it was right now. It was ruffled and wild. The ears rose from the fur in tall feral peaks. The muzzle was curled in a wicked snarl, and its nubby latex teeth were just yellow enough to be convincing. Its eyes were maniac bulbs, black with red irises. The mask was perfect, it was classic, and it spoke to her on a deep level.

  The kid took the mask down from its peg and walked back toward the registers. She stood in line 7 and waited very patiently until there were no more customers in front of her, and it was her turn. The woman wearing a yellow apron smiled at her as adults will smile at little kids and turned the mask around until its bar code beeped in the computer. The woman made a face like she was scared of the mask, and the kid grinned. She knew that when adults did things they thought were funny and really weren’t, it was best to be polite and act as if they were. The kid took out her wad of money, spread it over the stainless steel counter and waited while the woman counted everything up. The woman put the money inside the register drawer, snapped the receipt out of the top, put everything in a white and blue Schaddman’s bag and handed it to the kid with another smile.

  “You have a nice day, hon. And Happy Halloween!”

  “Thanks!”

  The kid walked out of the store. She stopped by a trash bin to throw away the plastic bag. She stuffed the receipt in her pocket. She put the mask on. She straightened it out in the reflection of the store’s big windows and made sure everything was in order. Satisfied, she turned and walked her stiff-armed walk through the parking lot toward Baker Street.

  October sunlight was baking down in one of the few remaining warm hours of the year, and the kid watched the sidewalk roll beneath her through the slits in the mask above the werewolf’s scary eyes. She liked the way the inside of the mask smelled. It smelled like a hiding place, stale and secretive. She liked the way her breath puffed in her own ears because it sounded like she really was a monster, with enormous huffs and puffs. To heighten the effect, she made her own breathing as guttural as she possibly could and relished the feeling it gave her. It was getting wet inside the mask, particularly around her mouth, and she felt like her breath was getting too hot and yucky in here. She liked the mask too much to take it off so she ignored the muggy feeling. Through the eye slits, she looked up and saw the moon yawning in the late afternoon sky. It wasn’t quite a full moon, but how perfect! This was just like a real werewolf. This costume was going to scare so many people.

  The kid had a wonderful idea. She would scare Mommy and Daddy once she got home. It was getting dark, after all, and any fan of Halloween will tell you that that’s the best time to scare anyone. She would avoid walking up the driveway. She’d sneak through the hole in the fence and go up the south lawn, and then she’d scare Mommy and Daddy in the family room, because their chairs faced the TV, which was beside a big window. The kid imagined how the werewolf mask might look from the inside of the house at this time of night with the TV on, and it was very scary.

  She crept up the lawn to the house. By now the sky was what Mommy liked to call the gloaming. Daddy just called it dusk. She nosed past some bushes, mindful of her mask’s ears- she didn’t want to be spotted early. That would give the surprise away. She reached the perfect spot beneath the window and heard the TV inside.

  The kid gathered her legs beneath her and slowly stood, holding her arms out and wiggling her fingers scarily. She rose into view of the family room and growled. Mommy glanced to the window and suddenly looked VERY scared! Her arm flapped out at Daddy’s arm and he saw her too. Mommy began screaming and then Daddy did. The kid giggled and growled “rrRAH!!” in her best werewolf voice. She banged her hands against the glass and the glass broke.

  Mommy and Daddy were trying to stand up while they were screaming and the kid climbed into the room.

  “GRRRR, I’m a WEREWOLF!” she grumbled, holding her arms up in her best I’m-gonna-getcha pose.

  Daddy threw the remote at her, and that just made her giggle again.

  “That won’t stop me! I’m going to EAT YOUUU!” She bunched her fingers into claws and swiped at mommy’s leg. Mommy’s leg came apart in a spatter of gore, cloth, fat and bone.

  “ARRRRR!” the kid said as she mimicked biting her mother. Through the latex eye-slits she could see Mommy’s mouth gouting blood, and Daddy had begun to hit her on the head.

  The kid outright laughed this time and turned on him. “Oh NO you don’t! I’m a MONSTER! GRAAAAHRRRR!!”

  Daddy gobbled against the wall, eyes wide. He looked so scared! With a playful growl, the kid launched at daddy with her claws. Daddy was opened wide in crimson stripes and his breath guttered in his chest as he tried to scream. Wet things fell out of daddy and plopped on the floor.

  The kid tore his throat out, swallowed it and yelled “The scariest monster of ALL TIME has STRUCK AGAIN!”

  She climbed out the window as the blood still ran down the wallpaper in weakening freshets. Outside, the moon was very big and the sky was almost entirely dark. The kid walked with a bent crouch, hands hooked into claws. Her lips were drawn back in a snarl inside her mask.

  “I ate them both up!” she hollered to the moon. “AHWOOOOOOOO!”

  A car was coming, she could see the growing strips of light on the road. She giggled again and ran into a bush, knowing it was what a werewolf would do. Being very quiet, she watched as the car passed by. What else might a werewolf do? she wondered. Who else might she scare? She decided upon the Frankels up the street. She crept off in that direction, snarling like a monster.

  END

  Our Lady of Sloth

  and Scarlet Ivy

  By Brian Hodge

  Called "a writer of spectacularly unflinching gifts" by no less than Peter Straub, Brian Hodge, is the award-winning author of ten novels of horror and crime/noir. He's also written over 100 short stories, novelettes, and novellas, and four full-length collections. His most recent collection, 2011's PICKING THE BONES, became the first of his books to be honored with a Publishers Weekly starred review. His first collection, THE CONVULSION FACTORY, was ranked by critic Stanley Wiater among the 113 best books of modern horror.

  He's recently finished the time-consuming task of porting over his earlier works for e-book editions, using it as an opportunity to do a fresh line-edit and polish on every novel and collected story.

  He lives in Colorado, where more of everything is in the works. He also dabbles in music, sound design, and photography; loves everything about organic gardening except the thieving squirrels; and trains in Krav Maga and Brazilian Ji
u Jitsu, which are of no use at all against the squirrels.

  Connect through his web site (www.brianhodge.net) or on Facebook (www.facebook.com/brianhodgewriter), and follow his blog, Warrior Poet (www.warriorpoetblog.com).

  So it’s come to this: wondering each day what it will be like the moment you overhear them deciding to kill you, to make their erasure of your existence complete. That it’s coming seems inevitable — they aren’t that stupid. It will have to occur to them that by now it’s their only option if they expect to get away with anything. The strangest part of it is that you can’t predict how you might react to the news. With relief? With a fierce resurrection of your will to live?

  Or instead with gratitude that after all these months something interesting is finally about to happen.

  Their conversations often carry through the ductwork to the basement, where, beside the furnace, you listen as though tuning in some distant radio broadcast. They do a lot of their talking in the kitchen, if the background clinks and clangs are any indication, and there must be some handy vent nearby that draws in their words and funnels them down to you. From the bathroom too, sometimes. Less successful have been your attempts to eavesdrop whenever they’re in the living room, although you’ve concluded that whenever they’re in there, the TV commands all of their attention. Its sound seems to only rarely mingle with the familiar timbres of their voices.

  “From now on, anything else that needs doing for her, you can just do it yourself.” There — that’s Nelson, whom you’ve figured for the younger of the pair by three or four years. The one whose idea this hasn’t been, who only went along with it. He has a little brother’s petulant tendency to yap. “I’m not going back down there and see a thing like that, and you can’t tell me to.”