Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  “He doesn’t get in until four. Can I ask who’s calling?”

  He hung up instead of giving an answer.

  * * *

  Dark Tunes was nestled between a Radical Liberal bookstore and a shop that advertised clitoris piercing on its front windows. Frank watched from across the street, sitting on a bench and pretending to wait for the bus.

  It was nearly four-thirty when Busty rolled up to the curb and headed into the front doors. Frank stayed put, let Busty put his things down and get behind the counter before he made his move.

  Inside he pretended to look through the records. There wasn’t a single band or artist he recognized. The speakers played something loud and piercing. It reminded him of the drill at his dentist’s office. He wondered how odd of a sight he must have been, a middle-aged balding man flipping through albums, the covers of which displayed mostly skulls and leather.

  Eventually Busty’s coworker headed out on their lunch break.

  Busty started stocking the shelves with new releases, humming along to the noise. He slid a CD into the slot just next to Frank. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, you can.” Frank knocked the CDs out of Busty’s hand, grabbed the collar of his shirt and pushed him across the store until he slammed against the back wall.

  “Jesus, Frank? What’s going on here?” He looked like a scared little corpse with his makeup and eye shadow and his pearly white skin.

  “I don’t want my daughter seeing you anymore. I saw you two cutting school earlier. And don’t think I don’t know about you and that fucking little club of yours. I know you’re part of them, knew it the second you walked through my front door. From now on you’re going to stay away from her, and I swear to God if I hear of another slaughtered pet within a ten-mile radius of my house, I’ll come back here and rip out all your rings one by one. Sound reasonable?”

  “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”

  Frank tightened his grip. “Sound reasonable?”

  “Fine. Just put me down.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Frank dropped Busty, straightened his tie, and headed for the doors.

  “Mr. Tanner,” Busty called from behind.

  Frank stopped at the entrance but didn’t turn around.

  “Think about what I said. Sometimes these groups can be very dangerous, especially when their numbers grow. When you have someone like Alyssa, so young and impressionable, these groups, they have a way of affecting the mind.”

  Frank fought the urge to head back there. Instead he slammed open the doors, crossing the street and speeding off.

  * * *

  Frank woke early the next morning and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat at the kitchen table and watched the sun rise and for the first time in the last week or so, he actually felt good. Telling Busty off had been the best decision he’d made in a long time. Though he had no proof, he was willing to bet Busty was a leader of sorts to that stupid little group and Frank hoped like hell he’d made an impression.

  Mona came downstairs and smiled. “You’re up early.”

  “Wanted a fresh start.”

  “Wants eggs with that?”

  “Sounds great.” He yawned, took another sip of coffee, and nearly spit it out when Alyssa came downstairs.

  There was a stranger in his house. It was more than a new hair color now. Her skin was pale, the color of newly whitened teeth. She had three new piercings: one on her eyebrow, one on her lip, and a large ring straight through her septum. It could not have been his daughter, yet it was, and the realization made him want to tear up.

  “You had no right,” she said, and then she grabbed his mug from his hands and the tossed it across the kitchen, missing Mona’s shoulder by an inch or so.

  Frank stood up. “What the hell was that?”

  “You had no fucking right!”

  The sound of her swearing was like a dog whistle, a frequency so high it brought pain to his ears.

  “Jesus, Alyssa!” Mona went for the broom. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on here.” Alyssa grabbed her backpack. She wore black fishnet stockings and if her shirt were any lower, her nipples would be free. Frank wanted to pinch himself and wake up. “Dad paid a little visit to my boyfriend last night and accused Busty of being a fucking Satanist or something. He told Busty he couldn’t see me anymore because of the Lynnwood Vampires.”

  “And is he?” Mona asked.

  Alyssa shook her head. “You too, Mom? It’s just a group. It gives us something to do. Do you even understand how boring this town is? I wanted to be part of something.”

  Frank wanted to tell her she was a part of this family, that he and Mona had tried for years to conceive and just when the doctors had all but given up, here had come Alyssa, their little miracle. But that had been his real daughter, not this doppelganger that stood before him.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to school.”

  “Alyssa,” Frank said, but she was already outside and hopping into her car.

  Mona cleaned up the mess on the floor.

  “Some phase,” Frank said.

  * * *

  Frank froze as he stepped into the school.

  Two out of every three students were dressed in black with pale skin. They laughed and snickered as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if the transition from good and normal kids to walking corpses was not strange in the least.

  He nearly sprinted to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He threw cold water onto his face and tried to tell his reflection he was just losing his marbles.

  His reflection seemed skeptical.

  * * *

  When he walked through his front door that evening Mona was crying. “I was just about to call you,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Alyssa didn’t show up to her shift at the supermarket. Her boss just called. I tried her cell but it’s off. I called the cops and you know what they told me? They said she’s probably just avoiding us and to call back tomorrow if she still hasn’t shown up. Some helpful advice.” She let out a small sob and a bubble of snot inflated from her nostril.

  Frank held her tightly. “I’m going to find her. I promise.”

  Mona said something but her voice was cut off by the loud thud from behind. They both jumped and Frank tightened his arms around his wife.

  The sound came from the front door.

  There was silence but not real silence because he could hear—or maybe sense was a better word—someone out there on the front porch.

  There was another thud, louder this time. He and Mona stepped back.

  Another thud, and then another, a succession of three or four loud bangs.

  Then footsteps, fleeting.

  Frank let go of Mona. He walked to the front door and touched the doorknob for far too long before he turned it. There was no one on his front porch but he hadn’t expected there to be. What he expected would be behind him. He felt bile rise from the back of his throat as he turned and confirmed his suspicions.

  “Call the cops again,” he said.

  “What’s out there?” Mona asked, her voice shaking with fear.

  “Just close the door and call the cops, tell them to check out what those fuckers left for us. Tell them we’re taking it as a threat.”

  She asked him again what he meant but he was already heading toward his car.

  He took one last glance as the dog, a spike nestled through its midsection, before he left.

  * * *

  Frank drove in circles, calling Alyssa’s cell every couple minutes, hoping each time that he’d at least get a dial tone but every call went straight to her voicemail.

  It was getting dark, a mist rising up from the ground, burning off the day’s heat. It obscured the houses to his left and right, made shadows seem to grow and move.

  Two figures came out of the mist, walking onto the sidewalk. Their black clo
thes were lost in the shadows but their pale skin stuck out, as if they were just floating heads and limbs.

  Frank pulled over to the curb and left the car running.

  He got out and grabbed the nearest kid, a short and plump boy with an eyebrow ring connected to a lip ring by a long chain. Frank grabbed the chain. “Where does your group meet?”

  “Fuck you,” the kid said. He spit onto Frank’s face.

  Frank smiled and pulled the chain. “I’ll ask one more time and then I’ll rip these right out of your ugly face. Where does your group meet?”

  The kid asked his friend for help, a girl with a tattered black dress and a veil over her face, but she was already taking off down the street.

  “Last chance.” Frank tensed his hands, ready to pull without a second thought.

  “At the old middle school,” the kid said. A tear ran down his face.

  “You’ll have to be more specific.” He pulled a bit harder.

  “Room 305. In the science wing. Please let me go.”

  For a moment Frank thought it was raining. He looked onto the sidewalk and saw a stream pouring from the kid’s pant legs. “I didn’t know vampires pissed their pants.” He pushed the kid onto his ass and got back into the car.

  * * *

  The old Lynnwood middle school had been closed for nearly a decade, the town unsure what to do with the abandoned hulk of building. It was at the end of Pine Street, resting at the top of a hill, a dead end. It looked more like an asylum than a school.

  Frank parked and let the engine die quickly.

  He used his phone for light as he walked toward the entrance but it didn’t help much. Everything was covered in shadows and he got the feeling that anyone could be watching him.

  He tried the front door but it was locked. He headed around back and saw that the next door was propped open with a wrench. He pulled it open, wincing when it creaked.

  The air inside was musty and moldy and dust particles danced through his phone’s beam of light. He headed down the hall, toward the stairwell.

  Something caught his eye to the right. It moved through the shadows toward him and he suppressed a scream. He shined the phone onto the figure.

  It was a rat, not much smaller than the dog that was nailed to his front door.

  Frank reached the stairwell and headed to the third floor. The length of the hall was pure darkness except for the final few feet. Room 305 had a faint glow pouring through the doorway. He walked slowly, trying not to breathe.

  There was movement in the light, shadows dancing.

  They’re just kids, he told himself. They can’t be doing anything all that bad. He would just march in there, grab his daughter, and leave. Though if he saw Busty, he’d break his nose on the way out.

  He was just a few steps away now. His pulse raced. His ears rang.

  He reached the door and looked through the small glass window.

  He dropped his cell phone.

  They were maybe two dozen of them, all dressed in black, with painted nails, torn jeans, and more piercings than he could count.

  And among the Lynnwood Vampires was Principal Fisher. He was on his knees, his head bobbing like he’d just lost a fight. He spat what might have been a tooth onto the ground.

  Busty stepped out of the crowd. He was not smiling like the rest of them. He looked serious and calm, a surgeon ready to begin a complicated procedure.

  He pulled out a hatchet, its blade long and sharp, and stood behind Principal Fisher.

  Then he raised the blade and brought it down. It made contact with Fisher’s neck and even through the heavy door Frank heard the snap of his spinal column. Blood sprayed in every direction, covering the floor, as if it were raining red.

  Frank’s phone rang.

  He dove for it, praying they wouldn’t hear. It was Mona. He answered, tried to keep his voice down. “Hello?”

  “Frank, she’s here. She’s home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Alyssa. She’s home. She said Busty tried to attack her but she got away. She’s okay.”

  The door to room 305 opened.

  Frank spun around, holding his phone out like it was a gun.

  Busty stood in the doorway, his face covered in red smears. “Frank. So nice to see you. I’ve got to hand it to you. Your intuition has done you well.”

  “Fisher,” Frank said, suddenly out of breath.

  Busty glanced back into the room. The rest of the Lynnwood Vampires were helping themselves, lifting chunks of flesh that had a moment ago belonged to Frank’s boss. “Yes, sacrifices must be made.” A drop of blood splashed from his lips. “He was marked, Frank. The first of many. The animals, they’re all part of something much bigger.”

  Frank thought of the dog on his front door.

  Busty wiped his face with the back of his hand and lapped up the streak of blood like a thirsty kitten. “I’m afraid you’re next.”

  Frank ran. He worked his legs harder than he had in years, not stopping until he was back outside in the foggy night and fighting for air.

  * * *

  As they shut the door of the U-Haul and made their way down Main Street one last time, Frank thought they weren’t going to make it out.

  They were everywhere. Hundreds of them, maybe more. The town was overrun with new members, all of which stared through the windshield as the U-Haul passed by, followed the Turners with their eyes.

  Frank sped toward the highway.

  * * *

  On the way to their new home, three states away, the Tanners stopped at a motel. Mona had offered to drive the final stretch but Frank insisted they get a good night’s sleep. The unpacking alone tomorrow would be exhausting and they needed all the rest they could get.

  He pulled up to the parking spot and cut the engine.

  Inside, the room smelled like ancient tobacco and stale sweat. He and Mona shared the closest bed. Alyssa took the other.

  He tucked his daughter in, just as he had most nights in the last three weeks. At first he’d expected her to protest but each time her eyes lit up like they had when she was a child, his own little miracle, a sight he’d never get over for as long as he lived.

  “Dad,” she said as he walked to the light switch.

  “Yeah, sweetie?”

  “Thanks. For everything.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  He slid into bed and fell asleep a few seconds later.

  * * *

  He woke to thunder. Strange, he thought. The weather forecast hadn’t mentioned any storms but he welcomed the cool air after the day’s humidity. He was only half awake and his eyes were already beginning to close once more.

  Until the thunder sounded again, much louder this time, and Frank dove up. Mona screamed. So did Alyssa.

  The thunder sounded a third time but by now Frank knew it wasn’t thunder at all.

  They turned their attention to the entrance.

  Blood began to pool under the door.

  END

  Fear of Fish

  by Elizabeth Massie

  Originally appeared in READ YOUR FEARS, 2008, Tricorner Publishing.

  Elizabeth Massie is an award-winning author of fourteen horror novels and collections, short horror fiction, licensed media tie-ins (Dark Shadows, The Tudors, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and more), mainstream fiction, poetry, and educational fiction and nonfiction. Her novella “Stephen” and novel Sineater both received a Bram Stoker Award from the Horror Writers of America. Thy Will Be Done, her 2010 novelization of the third season of Showtime’s original television series, The Tudors, won a Scribe Award from the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers.

  Recent works include stories in the anthologies/magazines Tales from Crystal Lake, Dark Discoveries #25, Shadow Masters, and Qualia Nous, the zombie novel Desper Hollow (Apex Books), and the historical horror novel, Hell Gate (DarkFuse). Currently, she is at work on a YA historical horror novel, The House at Wyndham Strand, a contemporary YA
superhero novel, Silver Slut: You’ve Got to Be Kidding Me, and Night Benedictions, a collection of gentle poems and meditations.

  Elizabeth lives in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and shares life and abode with her husband, illustrator/artist Cortney Skinner. She can be reached through her website: www.elizabethmassie.com or through Facebook.

  The river sounds like rain, a constant, cold rain that never stops, a downpour drenching the earth without slowing, without ceasing. I hear it through the broken glass of the tiny bedroom’s window. When I am awake I know it’s not rain, but when I begin to drift off to sleep, my mind tells me it is rain. Rain that will come down and rise up until I am drowned and washed away.

  I am afraid of rainstorms, as much as I am afraid of rivers and the Deep Hole.

  The cabin is an illegal one, built by my mother’s ancestors somewhere around the turn of the 20th century, far back in what is now a National Forest. Rangers stumble upon it occasionally while doing their more remote investigations. I’ve heard tell there’s been talk about tearing it down, but once they get back to the relative civility of the rangers’ station, they forget about it. And it would probably cost more to demolish it and haul the pieces away than they have in their annual budget. And so it stays.

  We never lived in the cabin, but when I was small our family would vacation there in late springs and summers. It was difficult to reach. There were no roads or even decent trails. Yet my mother insisted and my father never challenged her. We traveled light with just a pack each, asking a neighbor or friend to drive us to a picnic area at the edge of the forest, and then venturing back and into the woods, at first along the established hiking trails and then moving off into the brush and stands of deciduous and clots of cedar, down embankments draped in greenbrier, honeysuckle, and poison ivy, and along jagged boulders pointing uncertainly toward heaven. The cabin was nearly two hours off the beaten path, squatting on soft earth ten yards up the bank from the river, enshrouded in weeds. The porch drooped and the windows were long since cracked or broken out.