Scary Stories: A Collection of Horror - Volume 1 (Chamber of Horror Series)

by Billy Wells

  So much had changed since his father died five years ago. Most people preferred cremation now; it costs so much less, and the idea of being buried had become less appealing. A smile crossed his lips as he thought of his dear old dad turning over in his grave if he knew the average cost of a funeral these days compared to when he was scamming his clients. The biggest change on the other side of the coin was the current cost of a burial plot in Mount Chester where the real estate taxes were obscene.

  In order to make ends meet, Mortimer had been forced to sell his father's five-acre estate on Upper Panoramic Avenue. He never had a care in the world when he was growing up. His father often suckered grieving spouses into shelling out between $10,000 and $15,000 for a beautiful hand crafted mahogany casket with a velvet lining. When you added a marble headstone, the premier liner, and a Rolls-Royce hearse, the total cost would approach $30,000. Those were the days, and he knew they would never come again.

  Now, with his father's money almost gone, he had to think of something to bring in more business. He was too young to retire and couldn't see himself in a trailer in West Virginia.

  Suddenly, the phone ringing on the desk startled him. It was the first time the phone had rung in two days.

  “Hello, Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor,” he said in his most sincere voice. “Can I be of service?”

  The man on the line spoke rapidly in an irritating nasal staccato that assaulted his ears, “This is your lucky day. You are the 500th person I have called, which entitles you to an all-expense paid vacation in Cocoa Beach, Florida. Can I have your name so I can send you the tickets for this unbelievable value?”

  “Listen, Mac, I wasn’t born yesterday. This is Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor, and I am on the National Do Not Call list. You're breaking the law, scumbag, and you can receive a big fine for calling me.”

  He heard the click and slammed the receiver down in its cradle.

  Later that night, while watching a mind-numbing reality show on his twenty-five inch TV, Mortimer took pleasure in muting every inane commercial that interrupted the program. He had heard them all a thousand times: Several ambulance chasing lawyers claimed you could receive three times more money from an auto accident by hiring them. One car dealer had annoying catch phrases like “whatever it takes” while another had their daughter babbling, “where everybody rides.” Another commercial, with a man sitting in a kindergarten chair with four irritating brats, made him feel like putting his foot through the screen. Thankfully, he didn't have the energy to lift his leg that high.

  Suddenly, the phone rang on the end table beside him. Calls from the funeral home were automatically forwarded to his home after hours. Mortimer didn't have any friends so he couldn't think of who else could be calling except a potential customer. He crossed the fingers on both hands, and praying someone rich had died, picked up the phone and solemnly said, “Hello, this is Mortimer of Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor. Can I be of service?”

  A deep voice ignored his greeting and began his own spiel; ”I am calling on behalf of the Children of Firefighters and Policemen Fund for those who have paid the ultimate price of dying during the call of duty.”

  He slammed down the receiver in disgust. His leg was still too short to reach the TV screen to obliterate an anorexic looking female pitching a new weight loss program on the next commercial. He turned off the TV and sat looking at the blank screen, which seemed much more soothing and comforting to the eye and the ear. Looking on the coffee table, he grimaced at the stack of bills he’d received in the afternoon mail. He let out a long sigh and said to the furniture, “Something has to be done, but what?”

  After a time of idle circumspection, he picked up the first envelope and sticking his finger in the side pocket, ripped it open. Unfolding the paper folded within, he saw in big block letters, “YOU MAY BE READY FOR THE HEREAFTER, BUT ARE YOUR LOVED ONES READY FOR THE RISING COSTS OF A FUNERAL? WHY NOT MAKE ARRANGEMENTS NOW? CONTACT HILLSIDE MEMORIAL SERVICES FOR A NO OBLIGATION CONSULTATION.”

  “Wow,” he thought. Doctors, lawyers, morticians, everyone advertises these days. What was once unprofessional is now the norm. Mortimer liked the wording of the Hillside ad but thought he could do better. He wondered how much it would cost and how wide circulation would be for such an ad if he hired an agency to sent a flyer like that in the mail. A mailer might bring in the new business he needed so desperately. He certainly didn’t want to make cold calls like the joker who had called him earlier.

  The next morning, Mortimer found a company that mailed flyers for what seemed like a reasonable cost. However, in order to limit the cost further, he decided to share a page with another business and buy only a half page ad. The sales rep went on and on about the astronomical results their ads had produced. On average, a half-page ad increased business 20%, and a full-page as much as 50%.

  Mortimer grew more excited as the day of the launch approached and couldn't wait for the weekend when the flyer would be mailed to every house in a ten-mile radius.

  On Saturday, Mortimer went to the post office, bubbling over with anticipation and withdrew nine envelopes containing bills he couldn't pay and one folded yellow pamphlet of local ads. As he browsed the pages searching for his ad, he was thoroughly impressed with the professionalism and the compelling savvy of the company that produced the slick flyer.

  Finally, on the next to last page, he saw the most eye-catching half-page advertisement of them all, which was a clown with a humongous red nose and a balloon of text that read “HAPPY HARRY THE CLOWN IS GIVING AWAY CAMRY’S THIS WEEKEND AT CIRCUS CIRCUS TOYOTA.” Underneath, his completely boring ad of a man with a light bulb over his head looking satisfied he prepaid his funeral expenses made him feel like going home and blowing his brains out. But instead, he simply hung his head in despair, knowing he had driven another nail in his coffin by not asking to see the ad he was sharing the page with beforehand.

  The next day, as he sat on the bench in the town square obsessing over his imminent financial ruin, he saw a decrepit old woman with a cane hobbling by. The old biddy looked like she was older than George Burns when he saw him in Vegas just before he died at 99 years old. He immediately saw her in his mind’s eye in his Emperor model casket with the staggering price tag of $30,000. The quality of her conservative black dress told him she undoubtedly had money.

  He watched her get into a Mercedes, and after an eternity elapsed, he saw her drive timidly into the street. She drove so slowly that by the time she was half way into the turn, two other cars were blowing their horns at her. Without turning her head to see what was coming, she crossed in front of them and almost creamed an Altima that veered off the road to avoid her.

  With nothing better to do, Mortimer rushed to his car and followed the old woman to her home on Upper Panoramic Avenue. Like many of the homes on that street, she had a view of the New York City skyline. An ancient nameplate hung in the front yard that read “THE MELTZERS.” He made a note of the address.”

  When Mortimer arrived home, he rummaged for a copy of the telephone book he had never opened and looked for her last name in the white pages. Sure enough, there she was, Mabel Meltzer, the only Meltzer on the street. That afternoon, he mailed a flyer he had created on his computer that morning, which outlined the advantages of prepaying funeral expenses. He also made a mental note of running off 500 of them at Kinko’s later that day.

  As he expected, a week passed and Mabel Meltzer had not responded to the flyer.

  Mortimer assumed Mabel would soon make some funeral home richer and decided to make a cold call to her for the hell of it. He dialed the number he’d noted on the yellow pad and listened as the phone rang about ten times without going to an answering machine. As he was about to hang up, he heard the sound of someone fumbling with the receiver, and then came a weary, apprehensive voice that was almost a whisper, “Hello.”

  After a shocked pause, Mortimer went into his rapid-fire spiel, “Oh, I'm following up on the call I received on voice mail by
someone wanting more information about the prepayment of funeral expenses. The person seemed concerned that her loved ones would have to deal with the unpleasant task of arranging the burial in such a restricted time frame…. Let me see, yes… you are… Mrs. Mabel Meltzer residing at 3400 Upper Panoramic Avenue in Mount Chester. Correct?”

  The extremely hoarse woman, using what seemed to be all her strength to muster a sentence said, “You've reached the right number, but I didn't make any such call concerning funeral arrangements.”

  Mortimer could tell this woman was not the sort to rudely hang up on a caller so he continued, “Really, yes, I can tell by the sound of your voice that you are much too young to think about such matters. Is there anyone else at this number that may have made the inquiry?”

  “Not really,” Mabel said in a fearful, agitated tone. “There must be some mistake. You have the correct name, but I didn't make such a call, and I'm not interested.”

  Mortimer could almost hear her heart beating like a scared rabbit and hoped to get in another word or two, “Oh, Mrs. Meltzer, I'm so sorry I troubled you. I don't know how my assistant got your name and number confused…. He heard the click in his ear and made a note to follow up with a flyer every so often.

  After speaking with Mrs. Meltzer, this new way of approaching business excited Mortimer so much, he went to the town square each day and waited for a decrepit person to come along who looked like they had more than one foot already in the grave. He even made it a point to strike up a conversation with the person to see how timid and excitable they were. He would watch them until they left, and then follow them home to obtain their address, and then, their telephone number.

  Mortimer went to the local grocery store and paid cash for a telephone card. He was certain he would need to make anonymous calls no one could trace soon.

  At dusk, he searched every street for possible payphones in the least traveled areas. He was happy when he found the perfect location in a shadowy alcove nestled in the parking lot of a defunct gas station.

  Since Mabel had not responded to his mailings, Mortimer decided a more drastic course of action would be required to reach the desired conclusion. In preparation, he went to the high school football field when no one was there and began practicing his most scary voice every day for a week. He jotted down some notes on the script he thought would be effective to scare the old hag to death.

  When the moment came to finally put his plan into action and lift the pay phone from its cradle, he had to take several deep breaths before punching in Mable’s number. His fingers were trembling so much he could barely hit the right keys, but finally he got them in, and the phone began to ring. After it rang nine times, and he was about to give up, he recognized the feeble whisper of Mabel Meltzer’s voice. Sounding like she was already at death’s door, she gasped, “Hello.”

  “Hello, Mable, your time has come… Hee, hee, hee.”

  “Who is this?” she asked excitedly. “What do you want?”

  “It's the Grim Reaper, Mabel, and I'm coming to get you at midnight. Hee, hee, hee. Get ready to die!”

  Mortimer heard a high-pitched whimper in her throat and proceeded with his best impression of a Shakespearean actor’s laugh so deep and loud, it vibrated in his earpiece like he was in an echo chamber. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  He heard the phone skitter across the tile floor and the beginning of a breathless scream.

  “I'm coming for you, Mabel, look for me at midnight.”

  He listened. The line was still open, but he no longer heard Mable's labored wheezing to catch her breath. He could hear the faint sound of the TV in the background. Had she fainted? Was she dead? If this had worked this easily, he couldn’t wait to find another feeble old soul, hopefully obscenely wealthy, and try it again.

  “Now what,” he thought, putting down the handset. Returning to his car, he drove to the street where Mabel lived. As he passed in front of the large mansion, he saw that the living room light was on. It was nine o'clock, and from his past surveillance, he knew Mabel turned in around ten every night. This was when the light in the living room should go out.

  His heart quickened as his watch moved closer to ten.

  At 10:30, the light was still on.

  It was still on at 11:30.

  Mortimer assumed his plan might have worked. Now that everything had gone so perfectly, how could he connect with her loved ones so he would be the one selected to bury the old bag. He had never imagined his first call would frighten the old woman to death. Things had moved much faster than he anticipated. His only chance now was to connect with whomever might find one of his flyers in the mail. Just to be sure, he drove to the mailbox and stuck in a fresh, new one. Afterward, he sighed and drove home dejected and feeling like an idiot for his poor planning.

  For the next two days, he drove by the house both nights and found that the light in the living room was still on. He saw two newspapers in the driveway.

  When he returned home and turned in, he couldn't stop thinking of how perfectly his cold call scenario had worked, and yet, he probably would not be selected for the funeral arrangements.

  Three more bills came in the mail the next day.

  The following afternoon while eating a cold ham sandwich, the phone rang. He could see from the caller ID the call had transferred from the funeral parlor to his home. “Hello, This is Mortimer from Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor. How can I be of service?”

  After a long pause, Mortimer heard a deep, solemn voice laced with emotion begin, “My mother has passed away, and I came upon your flyer in the mailbox after I found her. I am an emotional wreck, and I'm clueless as to what to do. I'm not from this area, and I need your help.”

  “With whom am I speaking?” Mortimer asked politely.”

  “My name is Cornelius Meltzer.”

  “Yes!” he screamed silently to himself. “All is not lost after all.”

  “The next door neighbor called me about newspapers accumulating in the driveway. When I came to investigate, I found my mother, Mabel, dead on the floor.”

  Then, Mortimer said in his most sincere tone, “I'm so sorry for your loss. Rest assured, I will do everything I can to make this horrible experience as easy as I can for you. Is there anyone with you that can comfort you during this time of deep sorrow?”

  “Yes, my wife is here with me. What do we do now?”

  “If you haven't already, you should call 9-1-1. The emergency paramedics will come to verify your beloved mother is deceased, and they will notify the police and the coroner who will come to investigate as soon as possible. Once they examine the body, if no autopsy is required, they will ask you if you have selected a funeral home to arrange for the funeral and the burial services. You will give them our name, and we will take it from there. I will advise you of the necessary paperwork required. Do you know if your mother made any decisions on what she wanted in the event of her death?”

  “All I know is she did not want to be cremated,” the son explained.

  “Hallelujah!” Mortimer thought, his heart racing with excitement. He could barely keep from screaming out loud at that news.

  A half an hour later, Mortimer pulled into the circular driveway of Mable's home on Upper Panoramic Avenue. The sun was going down over the rooftops to the west. A Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud that appeared to be a block long glistened in the streetlights that had just come on.

  He noticed the light in the living room was still the only light on in the entire house. He thought it strange the house was so dark if people were inside. He saw no police cars or emergency vehicles in sight. “Where was everyone?” he thought.

  As he approached the front door, he had an eerie feeling like a wisp of a spider web had fallen on the back of his neck. Reluctantly, he rang the doorbell.

  Suddenly, from within, he heard a deep ponderous dirge that seemed oddly familiar. He believed he had heard it years ago at someone's funeral. He couldn’t swear it, but it may have been his father’
s funeral. The sound was more like a Hammond organ in a church rather than a sound a doorbell would make.

  As he stood in the dark waiting for someone to answer the door, the only light inside went out. For some peculiar reason, like the touch of a corpse on an embalming table, Mortimer felt the icy fingers of fear creep up his spine. In the bay windows to the left and the right of the front door, the curtains were thick and black. He listened for the sound of footsteps, but after a time, he assumed no one was home. Was someone playing a prank on him?

  Mortimer almost jumped out of his skin when the front door creaked slowly open a crack. He recoiled a step and had the uncanny premonition something was ready to spring upon him from the black interior.

  Then, from the silence behind the door, a sensual, breathy voice that reminded him of a madam who might operate a whorehouse whisper, “Yes, can I help you?”

  Mortimer tried his best not to appear rattled and muttered almost inaudibly, “I’m Mortimer Jeepers from Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor. I received a call from a man who said his mother passed away.” He pulled out a note pad, which he couldn’t read in the dark, and replied, “Could my colleague have written down the wrong address?”

  He waited for a response as he strained to see the person standing in the darkness inside the door. Then, the eerie, seductive voice came again like a chilly breath of wind as long, claw like fingers appeared like a veil across the shadow of her face, “My husband did call, Mr. Jeepers, but for some reason, you have come to the wrong house. Mother’s remains, rest her soul, is at our estate at Shadow Lane.”

  Mortimer stood speechless, and finally trying to recover, said, “Really? My assistant gave me this address. How he got it, I don’t know.” Flustered, and still trying to read his notes in the murky light, he muttered nervously, “I thought I’d been to every street in Mount Chester at one time or another, but I don't think I’m familiar with Shadow Lane.”