A Haunting of Horrors, Volume 2: A Twenty-Book eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Brian Hodge

  They were watching a documentary called The Aliens Among Us!

  Judd held his hands over his face. “That’s easy for you to say, you haven’t been dubbed ‘Assman’ by the media.”

  “It could have been worse,” Kenny Joe commented. “They could have called you Anal Probe Guy.”

  Bailey cackled. “That kinda sounds like a gay porn actor.” He stopped laughing suddenly and coughed. “Not that I ever watched any.”

  On the screen before them Max was saying, “We tried and tried to get that probe out his BEEP, but it just wasn’t BEEP happening. Finally, we just had to cut the rod, so now it just stuck out his BEEP just so, you know what I mean?”

  Judd looked up. “Did you really have to do interviews, man?”

  Max nodded. “Shit, for twenty thousand I woulda done that interview buck naked in a pink bow tie while sodomizing a monkey.”

  Judd shook his head looked at the screen, just about ready to cry. Kenny Joe was now being interviewed. “I could tell by looking at the poor BEEP that it had to hurt. Hell, if you had a metal shaft shoved straight into your BEEP would you not be BEEP hurtin’? I was wincin’ just looking at him. And of course he was BEEP carryin’ on like it was the end of the world.”

  “Look at it this way, Judd,” Kenny Joe said, slapping him on the back. “You’re a star now. Shit, they’re selling ‘Assman in Space’ T-shirts and everything!”

  At this point, Judd started to cry. He knew that shitpie would always be on the table when he came for dinner. He just couldn’t catch a break.

  Ingredients are the Secret to Great Taste

  by Weston Ochse

  “What the fuck do you mean, it ain’t my turn?” shouted Enus into the racing wind of the speeding pickup.

  They were confident the deputy sheriff had taken the last turn-off where Zebulon had left a skid of dust as a swirling temptation. The blue and red Ford pickup had swung around the bend in the road too quickly for them to see if the bastard had taken the bait, though. Zeb didn’t care. He was hell bent at near seventy miles an hour — the fish-tailing back end fighting the road at each turn.

  “Just what I said. I mean it ain’t your turn,” said Zeb, wrenching the wheel hard to the right. “Anyways, you had the last one.”

  “The last one? She don’t count. Hell,” said Enus, “you can’t count her. She was near eighty years old. That gash was gray as hell, man.”

  “Thems the chance you take. It was your turn and you can’t even start complaining. It ain’t like that man I had to do last week. At least yours was a woman.”

  Enus chuckled at the memory of his lifetime friend embracing the hippie they found hitchhiking last week. They had both thought he was a woman. His legs and his butt were tight and pretty damn good looking. Then the fairy pulled his hair aside and they saw the two weeks growth of beard. By then it was too late. And Zeb had made the hippie pay for it.

  “Fine then. At least I get to help,” said Enus. The last was a question more than a statement. The grin Zeb gave him in return was enough to let him know that tonight would be a group effort.

  Three miles later they skidded to a stop in a roadside picnic area. Zeb repositioned the truck so it faced back the way they came and grabbed up his sheep skinner. It was a six-inch, wicked-looking blade. Its grip could double as a spiked set of brass knuckles and Enus had only seen it used once. The look on the poor patrolman’s face as his forehead sprouted five new holes was still funny, even after six months.

  “I think we ditched the motherfucker,” said Zeb grabbing a beer from the Styrofoam cooler between them. “Lucky for him,” he said, taking a deep gulp.

  “Yeah, lucky,” said Enus.

  He ignored the cooler and grabbed the earthenware jug. It was one of Daddy’s specials —- The Sweetness, they called it, and the taste lightened his feet.

  Half an hour, six beers and an empty jug later, they were cruising the highway again. They called it rousting. Their daddies did it and their daddy’s daddies had done it. It was family tradition and besides the guarding of the still, it was all they ever did.

  Their hunting ground was a road that ran between the dark forests of Ooltewah and Cleveland, Tennessee. Travelers had two choices. They could take the newer Interstate 25 or the old highway. Zeb and Enus preferred the less traveled highway and concentrated their rousting there. Besides the occasional cheerleader who dumped her date, or the young boy who ran away from home because his mommy and daddy cut his Sega-time down, the only people who traveled it were leftovers.

  That’s what daddy called them. Leftovers, those folks who had already wasted their chance and were merely waiting for Darwin to exert himself. Zeb and Enus were Darwin’s messengers, and in the battle of survival of the fittest, they were always on top. It wasn’t as if they threw the leftovers away. Leftovers were special ingredients that made everything taste better. You never knew what you were gonna find. Daddy said it was the mystery that enhanced the taste.

  It had been a slow night and just as they were about to head home, the headlights illuminated a solitary figure walking along the side of the road. Zeb immediately slowed, the sheep skinner gripped in his left hand. They could tell by the walk that it was a man and Enus laughed loudly.

  “Like you said, Zeb. It’s your turn.”

  Zeb shot him a look that was meant to kill, but it only succeeded in making Enus snort white-lightning through his nose as he laughed hysterically.

  “Big bad Zebulon,” continued Enus. “Rouster of men and a closet homosexual.”

  He dodged the half-full can of beer and grinned wider as it flew through the open window.

  “Hey, don’t get mad at me. I offered to help, but you said, Nooooo.”

  The sheep skinner rose and sank between Enus’ legs, impaling the seat. A little of the moonshine spilled from Enus’ shaking hands, hiding any piss that may have inadvertently escaped due to the proximity of the razor sharp blade to his manliness.

  The pickup pulled just ahead of the walking man and stopped on the wide shoulder. Enus opened his door and leaned out. The light had been removed several years ago, a solution to too many hitchhikers who bolted.

  “Hey, Man. You wanna ride?” Yelled Enus.

  Their target was dressed in a black leather duster that hung all the way to the red clay dirt on the edge of the road. His hair was likewise black and flowed halfway down the back. Enus thought of the hippie and hoped this one would scream the same way.

  “I said, do you wanna ride?”

  The man stopped by the back of the truck, his face and eyes cast in shadow. His hands were clasped solemnly in front of him.

  “Yes,” came a voice like a serpent’s hiss.

  Enus glanced at Zeb, who indicated the sheep skinner in his hand.

  “No problem, stranger,” said Enus. “You got any bags?”

  Zeb cracked his door and began to slide slowly out.

  “Do I look like I have any bags?” asked the dark man.

  “Well, no,” said Enus, letting the insult slip. He’d have plenty of time to make the fucker pay.

  “Come on in then, we need to get going.”

  “I don’t think so,” said the voice.

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to kill your sorry ass right here,” said Zeb from behind the man.

  Zeb lunged, the glistening blade held in a practiced hand, falling fast towards the unprotected back of the stranger. Suddenly, his target wasn’t there. Zeb almost castrated himself on the follow-through, barely correcting in time.

  “Behind you,” yelled Enus.

  Zeb spun around to find his target and cursed as the stranger raised its head. The eyes were solid white and the mouth showed twin fangs, descending.

  “Fuck. It’s one of them,” said Zeb.

  “One of what? A faggot?”

  “Worse. A fucking vampire,” said Zeb with resignation.

  The pickup wound through the hills and finally skidded to a stop as the road dead-ended in an unmarked
cul-de-sac. Kudzu covered trees surrounded the half-circle like sentinels and cicadas sang in the darkness. Two men stood in the beams of the headlights, shotguns trained at the windows.

  Zeb and Enus jumped out, the latter carrying the Styrofoam cooler.

  The men lowered their weapons, but still held them at their hips, just in case.

  “What you boys bring us?” asked the one in the newer looking overalls.

  “Sorry Dad,” said Enus. “It was a bad night.”

  “Whatya mean it was a bad night,” asked the other, much older gun-toting man.

  Zeb lowered his head and answered his Grandfather. “We killed another one.”

  Both men lowered their barrels to the ground and simultaneously spit out streams of ugly, brown tobacco juice.

  Enus shuffled forward and opened the cooler. Within, lay a steaming black heart, their latest ingredient.

  His father glanced inside and jerked his head behind him. Through the trees, Enus saw the intricate pipes and pots of the family still. The contraption hummed and rattled as heated air created the Whitmire family’s special moonshine.

  “That’s a big one,” said the boy’s father, inspecting the heart.

  “I’m getting sick of the taste, though. Bloodsucker Special used to be a hot seller. Now it’s like that Coca-Cola crap. Everybody drinks it,” said the Grandfather.

  Circus Clowns and Elephant Cracks

  by David Whitman

  “My god do I hate fucking clowns,” Judd said, sipping his Budweiser from a Styrofoam cup, already feeling quite drunk. How they had managed to get him to the circus in the first place, he had already forgotten.

  “That’s because you’re afraid of them,” Max snickered.

  Judd snorted. “Yeah right. They annoy the hell out of me, that’s why. Look at that one with the blue hair. He keeps looking at me and beeping his horn. He does it one more time, I’m going to go down there and stick that fucking horn up his ass.”

  Kenny Joe studied the clown as if imagining the scene Judd had described, a big, goofy grin brightening his chubby face as he brought the beer cup away from his lips. The foam made his van dyke mustache look gray. “That would be funny as shit if you started a clown riot, bro.”

  “I must agree,” Bailey said, giggling like a child at the antics of the clowns.

  The clown with the blue hair shot a cocky glance up at Judd, held his horn in the air, and tooted it three times.

  “Oh my god, that’s it,” Judd said, leaping up from his seat and climbing down the bleachers, fists clenched tightly to his side.

  “Go on, beat that clown’s ass!” Kenny Joe screamed after him.

  Max was excited. “I can’t believe he’s really going to do it!”

  Judd got to the bottom, jumped over the small gate, and threw himself upon the clown. The other clowns, as if sensing their comrade in trouble, ran to his aid, leaping into the kaleidoscopic pile one after another.

  Soon, Judd was entangled in what appeared to be some sort of clown insect, gigantic shoes and rainbow colored gloves jutting and shifting around in every direction, a cloud of dirt balled around them like an insanely drawn cartoon.

  Max, Kenny Joe and Bailey might have helped had they not been literally rolling out of their seats in laughter. The sight of their good friend getting his ass beat by a gang of clowns was just too much for them to bear. Kenny Joe found it particularly delightful, his big belly shaking up and down convulsively as he roared so hard he could not breathe. Other spectators also found it amusing, judging by the barrage of hilarity erupting around the ring.

  Judd felt as if every multicolored fist that slammed into his face was accompanied by a laugh track.

  After a five-minute beating, the clowns heaved Judd out of the ring where he fell hard, gasping in pain. The clown with the blue hair leaned over Judd, honked his horn three times, and ran back to join his colorful comrades.

  A portly security guard waddled up to Judd, leaned forward and said, “I would arrest your sorry ass, but I’d say what just happened to you was punishment enough.” He shook his head and walked away.

  Judd closed his eyes and wished he would die. When he opened them again, his friends were standing around him in a circle.

  “Oh my fucking God, that was funny,” Max said.

  “I must agree,” Bailey added, nodding his head.

  “‘I’m going to go down there and stick that horn up his fucking ass,’” Kenny Joe said, imitating Judd’s voice, then falling back and erupting into giggles.

  Judd struggled to his feet and pointed at each of his friends. “Fuck you, fuck you and fuck you. Get me out of this tent.”

  By the time they made their way back outside Judd’s mood had improved considerably. They bought some more beer and walked around taking in some of the sites of the circus. The Butler brothers lost twenty bucks each trying to toss a basketball through a hoop while Max and Judd ate corn dogs.

  “Max,” Judd said solemnly as they walked, his face still swollen from his beating. “Do you think things will ever turn around for me, man?”

  “You take things too seriously, Judd. You just know when we’re two old bastards, sitting on the porch drinking whiskey we’ll be laughing at this shit.”

  Judd smiled, then winced as his bleeding lips cracked. “The way things are going, I ain’t gonna make it to be no old man. I agree with you, though, on one thing. This shit is probably be gonna be a lot funnier after some years go by.”

  Max snickered. “I think it’s funny now, man. You just got your ass beat by a clown posse. Publicly, I might add.”

  Judd sighed wearily and then offered a twisted smile. “I know. I swear my life is one long beating.”

  They came upon a large enclosed area with four elephants. Kenny Joe grunted when he got a whiff of the elephant shit and covered his nose. Bailey commented that dog shit was a much worse smell, but that elephant shit had a sweeter scent, with a touch of tang. Judd just looked at the both of them, knowing he would fall over in shock if they ever had a conversation that was above the level of a mountain cretin. Each elephant had a leather harness and was giving rides to small children from one side of the area to the next.

  “Man, I’d pay money to see Judd riding an elephant,” Kenny Joe said as he stared at the beast with just a hint of fear. He took a long sip of his beer to chase away his jitters.

  Judd tossed his empty beer cup into the garbage. “Oh really? And how much money would you pay?”

  “Twenty bucks.”

  Judd waited a few seconds, but barely had to think about it. “Okay, but only if Max will ride with me.”

  After a little bit of negotiating they walked over to purchase a ticket. The ticket seller, an acne-ridden teenager with an “It’s Miller time!” hat, stared at Judd suspiciously. “Ain’t you a little old to be ridin’ elephants? This ride is for children.”

  Judd glared at the teen. “Listen, fucknut. I just got an assbeating by a dozen clowns in front of an audience, and I’ll be goddammned if I’m gonna take any lip from a zit-faced kid in a fucking Miller beer hat.”

  Bailey agreed. “Obviously, Budweiser would have been a better choice.”

  The teenager studied the men for a few seconds, swallowing apprehensively. “Okay, that’ll be five bucks. I could get in trouble for this, you know. Bart don’t like no adults ridin’ him.”

  Judd stared at the obscenely large elephant, his eyes taking in the beast. The elephant met his gaze for a moment and he felt a tingle of fear tickle his stomach.

  Judd and Max approached the beast warily, eyeing it up the same way they would one of the animals they hunt in the woods.

  Kenny Joe shook his head. “Goddamn, but if that elephant don’t have the biggest set of balls I ever seen.”

  Bailey nodded as if Kenny Joe had made a profound and important observation about the universe.

  Judd climbed up the ladder, followed by Max. They were being led across the field by one of the animal handlers, the la
rge beast shaking them back and forth as it walked.

  “This is the way they get around in India,” Max commented as the beast clomped slowly across the field.

  “Are you that much of a fool?” Judd asked, still smarting from being made fun of about the clowns. “Maybe like in 1890 they got around like this, moron.”

  “Hey don’t snap at me just because you got your ass beat by some clowns.”

  “Max?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to let that go, but if you ever bring that incident up again I’m going to get the bitch-be-quick-stick out and beat you until you can’t breathe, you got that?”

  “Not such a bad ride for twenty bucks,” Max said, trying to change the subject.

  They were almost near the end of the field when the elephant let out a primal shriek and charged toward an open gate, nearly unseating the both of them. Judd fell off to the side where he dangled around like a puppet, his leg caught deep within the harness.

  “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Judd chanted as he slapped back and forth against the animal’s side.

  One of the handlers tried to close the gate as the beast charged, roaring and swinging its trunk furiously. The Elephant hit the metal explosively, sending the handler into the air like a rag doll—he slid across the dirt for about twenty feet, coming to a stop against the wall of a portable bathroom. The bathroom fell over like a large bowling pin, leaving the stunned and unconscious handler lying there like a pulverized action figure.

  The elephant ran over to the handler and proceeded to kick him around before kneeling over and crushing him with a sickening snap of bones.

  At the same moment, the elephant seemed to sense it had riders on its back. It lashed out with its thick trunk, slapping Judd in the ass with a thunderous clap.

  Judd howled, trying desperately to clamber back into the harness. Max turned around so that he was riding the elephant backwards and tried to help his dangling friend. He managed to grab the back of Judd’s khakis only to have them rip off, sending Judd backwards and almost out of the harness.