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

by Billy Wells

  Mortimer winced when he heard the sound of the woman's voice suddenly change from sultry to a throaty rasp, “Are you familiar with the cemetery down by the railroad tracks and the old Victorian estate above it on the hill?”

  Mortimer’s face lit up with recognition, and then darkened; as he pictured a dilapidated, old ruin of a mansion that everyone in town said was haunted. “You aren’t referring to the old Lugosi Estate, are you? As far as I know, no one has lived there for years.”

  “Our family bought the house last year and have just begun to renovate it. It's a lovely old house with such an enchanting history.”

  “It has a remarkable history all right,” Mortimer thought, but didn’t say, “legend has it that several families met with violent and mysterious death there. He remained calm and replied, ”Yes, I know the location well, now that you mentioned the railroad tracks. Listen, could I come in for a few minutes? I hate to speak with you on the front porch about a funeral.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jeepers, I’m afraid I’m not presentable at the moment. After all, I did not expect to be receiving visitors at this location,” she said coldly.

  Mortimer immediately changed the subject, “Do you know what cemetery you have chosen for the interment?”

  “I must go in now,” she said abruptly, “I don’t like full moons, and I see one peeking over the rooftops over there. I’m afraid my husband will have to fill you in on the details.”

  A car turned into the street, and its headlights washed the front door with a beam of light. For a split second, Mortimer saw a pale face in the doorway with deep sunken eyes and hollow cheeks that recoiled as she threw up the hem of her gown to shield her face like a vampire lifting his cape to block the sun. Her head appeared as hairless as a cancer victim after months of chemotherapy.

  After the Chevrolet passed, Mortimer stood with his jaw agape at the glimpse of the strange woman caught like a deer in the headlights. Then, an even stranger voice emanated from within that sounded almost baritone.

  “You’d better be going, Mr. Jeepers, my brother is waiting for you.”

  The door whispered closed as Mortimer stood transfixed for a few more seconds in shock, and then he returned to his car. The way she or he or whatever it was just said, “my brother is waiting for you” reminded him of the chilling line from Night of the Living Dead, ”They're coming to get you, Barbara.”

  Suddenly, financial ruin didn't seem quite as important now. The thought of going to Lugosi house for the corpse was more than he had bargained for. He found it particularly odd that the thing in the doorway hadn't grilled him on why he’d come to an address entirely different than what he’d been given. What seemed like his lucky day did not seem so lucky now.

  It had been many years since Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor had buried someone in the old cemetery on Shadow Lane. He remembered his father conducting services there when he was in grammar school.

  The house and the old cemetery were located at the edge of town. Both were like a well-guarded secret no one talked about. The tombstones were crooked, broken or missing, and weeds had grown over most of them. It was a forgotten place no one visited. The sons and daughters of the loved ones buried here had passed themselves long ago. Among the gnarled, barren trees on a hill overlooking the graveyard was a dark foreboding monolith of a house surrounded by a gray picket fence with random slats that reminded Mortimer of missing teeth.

  As he sat in his car peering at the mammoth structure with its new gable roof, he noticed the windows across the front, which were mostly broken the last time he’d been there, had been replaced. Someone had also repaired the large entry door that had once hung on one hinge. A black Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud of a similar vintage to the one parked at the estate on Upper Panoramic Avenue glistened in the moonlight in the newly poured concrete driveway. Heavy, black curtains covered every window, and only a faint light was visible in one downstairs window.

  Mortimer gasped in wonderment at the makeover of the old house and couldn't imagine what kind of degenerate would want to live there.

  Reluctantly, he exited his Crown Vic and slowly trudged to the door. A heavy brass doorknocker was affixed to the center of a huge ancient door that would have been perfect for a horror movie. Lifting the heavy brass knob, he rapped three times.

  In a few moments, someone drew the bolt, and the door creaked open. A weird, skinny, little man with a narrow face and a prominent Adam’s apple peered at him from the darkness. His creepy, exaggerated smile was so wide, Mortimer could see every tooth in his head when he croaked, “Mr. Jeepers, I presume. Please come in. Lady Meltzer is in her bedroom.”

  The spindly little man with the odd teeth motioned him to follow and strode off into the shadowy interior. The only light came from a chandelier in the foyer with only three of the eight bulbs burning in the enormous fixture. Mortimer wondered what wattage these extremely dim lights might be.

  Passing several doors on the long corridor lit with the same low wattage bulbs, the spidery form opened a door and led him inside to a huge four-poster bed. A single candle flickered on an end table situated on each side of the richly adorned headboard. There, in the middle of a king-size bed, Mortimer saw Mable Meltzer, lying motionless in a black nightgown. She didn’t appear to be breathing, but she didn’t look dead in the least. Her skin was pale and showed no signs of discoloration that normally comes with rigor mortis.

  “Have the EMT’s, the sheriff, and the coroner been here yet?” Mortimer inquired.

  “Master Cornelius met with the authorities, and he had a notary sign and stamp all the papers. He said you are welcome to transport Lady Meltzer to your place of business in preparation for the funeral. As the Master indicated, she will be buried in a special mausoleum in the cemetery at the bottom of the hill.”

  Mortimer’s face creased in disbelief, “You actually want me to bury her in the abandoned graveyard next door?”

  “Exactly, the Master desires his mother be interred as close as possible to the family home. He will give you the specifications of the mausoleum, which must be followed to the letter. Mrs. Meltzer is of the Jewish faith and will not be embalmed. Since she died four days ago, your immediate attention in a speedy service is critical. Will any of these instructions pose a problem?”

  “No problem,” Mortimer said, “I am your devoted servant in your time of grief. We have a special room set aside for those of the Jewish faith where friends and family can view their loved one through a glass partition. Not to brag, but I must say I am an expert in preparing the deceased for the viewing in spite of the number of days…”

  Before Mortimer could finish, the thin man cut him off and said sternly, “That will not be necessary. The master has requested there be no viewing. Only the immediate family will be present at the wake, and they want to remember her as she was in life.”

  “Shall I make arrangements for the announcement in the paper?”

  “That also will not be necessary. We don’t want to make Lady Meltzer’s passing a sideshow as so many others do.”

  Mortimer took notes of the bizarre instructions given him by this peculiar man who must have been born with the some kind of birth defect that he showed every tooth in his head when he opened his mouth. He wondered if Cornelius Meltzer was really in agreement with these stipulations. He also wondered if the authorities had actually been there. Things were happening much faster than usual. Whoever heard of wake with no viewing and no obituary in the newspaper?

  Mortimer waited for Cornelius for almost an hour. Frustrated, he went into the hall was about to call out when he realized he didn’t know the butler’s name. Faced with no other choice, he called, “Hello” several times, but received no answer.

  The interior was as soundless as a tomb, which continued to unnerve him. He had the uncanny feeling someone was watching him. He didn’t want to linger in this creepy house any longer than necessary. Consequently, he decided to dispense with protocol and move the body to the funeral ho
me right away. He’d secure the required papers later.

  He removed the phone from his suit pocket and called Leonard, the beefy young man who helped him with the heavy lifting.

  After three rings, a spaced out voice, obviously short on brains, answered, “Hello, Mortimer, do you need us?”

  “Why else would I call, Leonard?” Mortimer said curtly. “Can you pry your butt off the sofa and bring the hearse to 666 Shadow Lane?”

  After a silence, “Where’s that, Mortimer?”

  “Do you know where the old cemetery is down the road from Shady Rest?”

  “You mean the insane asylum?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know where it is, I used to go frog hunting there years ago.” Leonard said brightly.

  “Do you remember the big old house on the hill?”

  “You mean the Lugosi house… where all those people were hacked to death?”

  “You have a way with words, Leonard. Yes, that’s where I am now.”

  “Jeepers, Mortimer, they say that place is haunted.”

  “Well, that’s drivel. I’ve been here for over an hour, and I haven’t seen any ghosts yet. Get your ass in gear and get over here. And don’t forget to wear a suit. Tell Larry.”

  “I dunno,” the meek voice replied.

  “Get over here now!” Mortimer clicked off, not waiting for a reply and returned the phone to his pocket.

  While he waited, Mortimer took a seat in a large stuffed armchair and purposely refrained from looking at the old woman’s corpse. Something about it didn’t seem right. The first thing was she didn’t look dead. “Why was there no rigor mortis after all this time?” he thought.

  “Do you need my assistance, Mr. Jeepers?” came an eerie voice behind him that startled him so badly he felt like he’d lifted off the chair. He had not heard the whisper of a sound that the man had entered the room.

  “No, I wouldn’t think of asking anyone in the family to assist me. My colleagues are on the way to transport Mrs. Meltzer to the funeral home. By the way, what did you say your name was?”

  “Wolf, sir,” he said, with his disconcerting toothy smile. This time, Mortimer noticed the hideous gums around his oversized teeth looked almost black.

  “Remember, Wolf, I will need the death certificate and the other papers from the authorities before I go much further.”

  “The master will meet you at your facility shortly,” The wide cavern between his teeth sent shivers up the undertaker’s spine.

  Forty-five minutes later, Mortimer heard heavy footsteps approaching the room. He rose from his chair as Leonard and Larry rolled a stretcher in ahead of the man who looked deader than Mrs. Meltzer. Mortimer could see he made a similar impression on his two strong men. He was also a little embarrassed by the way their jaws dropped open when they saw the old woman’s body.

  In a whisper, the mortician said, ”Shut your mouths and get on with it. I’ll meet you at the hearse. And don’t let the body fall on the floor this time.”

  After the transfer of the body transpired to the funeral home without a mishap, Mortimer paid the two gophers fifty dollars for their trouble and went into the embalming room to prepare the body,

  Cornelius had called earlier and instructed him to place his mother in the finest casket he had and asked him to order a thousand dollars of red and white roses, which he said was his mother’s favorite flowers.

  “Despite the bad vibes he’d had all along, everything was coming up roses,” Mortimer sighed under his breath. Including the mausoleum, he could see a cool $50,000 invoice for the Meltzer funeral and interment.

  As he stood in awe at the appearance of the woman who died four days ago, there was nothing he really needed to do. Even Mable's hair looked radiant, as if she’d just come from the beauty parlor.

  As he removed the gauzy gown to transfer the corpse into a tub of soapy water to clean it, he noticed there was no sign of body fluids that always follow death when the muscles of the deceased shut down. Someone had already bathed the body. In fact, the skin had a luster and an unmistakable bath oil fragrance rather than the stench of urine and fecal matter.

  Turning the body on her side, he couldn’t believe that her back was entirely free of the discoloration that always occurs and get darker over time. In fact, her skin although paler than a normal person, still had a pink, rosy undertone.

  He lifted her wrist and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He grabbed a stethoscope from a shelf and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. Putting down the instrument, he removed a mirror from the side table and placed it under her nose. He looked for the glass to fog up for two long minutes to be sure. And, again, nothing.

  From all indications, Mrs. Meltzer was dead. He abruptly went for her ribs and tried to tickle her. Not even a twitch. As he stood washing her body with his black beady eyes, he was aroused by the firmness of her ample breasts and the larger than normal areolas that encircled her nipples. He became embarrassed when he felt the erection growing in his pants and stepped away to let it pass. What was wrong with him? How could he feel this way for an 80-year-old woman who could be his grandmother? Of course, he had mounted a number of young women over the years, mostly corpses still warm after an automobile accident.

  Mortimer took a load off and reclined in a nearby chair, reminiscing one of the most striking bodies he had ever seen in all the years of preparing stiffs for viewings. God knows he would never forget that one buxom brunette. He remembered he’d come four times that night while rigor mortis was setting in. What a fox. What a waste. None of the other women had ever given him an erection as hard as… what was her name…? Dallas, that was it. He remembered the red scarf he’d used to cover the left side of her face that was sliced off in the crash. Mortimer’s motto had always been “if it feels good, do it. Necrophilia is just good clean fun, and where was the victim here? The woman was dead, for Christ’s sake.

  Mortimer went to the sink and splashed cold water in his face. His erection had subsided, and he dutifully began to dress Mabel in the clothes her son’s servant had given him. Afterward, he applied light makeup to her face, and after gluing her eyes shut, applied mascara to her lashes. He still planned to place her body in a separate room with the viewing panel even though they said they didn’t want it. Pausing to take yet another look at the state of her body, he couldn't detect the slightest trace of an unpleasant odor from the corpse.

  Leonard and Larry arrived at 6:30 to arrange the casket and to distribute flowers around the viewing area and the altar.

  Mortimer had called Mabel’s son several times to ask about the death certificate and other legal papers, but he had not returned the call. Mortimer was still obsessing over confronting Cornelius when he received a Federal Express envelope with a check for $25,000 marked as a deposit. Mortimer was worried about what the authorities would do if they found out he proceeded with the funeral without the death certificate, but not enough to jeopardize $50,000 by doing something stupid. He reluctantly decided to proceed and hoped the fine for his oversight would not be significant if the authorities did discover it.

  At ten until seven, several middle-age couples appeared dressed in expensive looking suits and gowns. “No Burger King crowns for this service,” Mortimer thought happily.

  Mortimer cordially circulated among the twenty or so guests who attended the two-hour affair. He made it a point to give each couple or individual a business card.

  Something about this group seemed unusual. Aside from their dress, their demeanor had a formality he hadn't seen for years. Half of them had an odd accent he guessed was European. When he greeted them, their hands seemed oddly cool to the touch. There was also something peculiar about the way they spoke. They were… tightlipped. That was the only description he could think of to describe it. It was as if every one of them had just had Botox injections preventing them from opening their mouths and enunciating properly. He had seen this many times with older people, but not an entire crow
d.

  It was the strangest, most unorthodox wake ever held at Jeepers’ Funeral Parlor. After everyone finally left, and he was alone, Mortimer once again slumped in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the viewing room and exhaled deeply. By tomorrow afternoon, he would have $50,000 and could pay off most of his creditors.

  Even better than the money, he had a new way of doing business. Rather than waiting for someone to die, he would simply sit in the park or in the town square and look for decrepit old geezers with more than one foot in the grave. There were a lot of them around Mount Chester, and many of them had money, particularly the ones on Upper Panoramic Avenue. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He didn't remember his father entertaining such a grand idea, but that was another time.

  The memory of his dear old dad made his heart beat faster. No, his father had never tried to scare people to death to make a buck, but he certainly had scammed them in every other way. Whenever someone ordered an extremely expensive casket, he had his gravediggers dig up the casket the night after the burial and transfer the body into the cheapest wooden box of plywood money could by and rebury them. Since the grave was already fresh, no one was ever the wiser. After a little refinishing, he placed the expensive coffin back in the showroom and sold it again.

  His father always removed the expensive watches and jewelry before he closed the coffin for the last time. He also had a special set of needle-nosed pliers he used to extract the gold fillings before he sewed the corpse’s lips together.

  Sometimes, if the family quibbled about his price, and he had to lower it a tad, he would exchange the more expensive casket before it left the funeral home with one where only the top was what they paid for. The sides and the bottom were cheap plywood covered with a velvet cloth. In forty years, not one person discovered the devious and disgusting business practices that made him filthy rich, and he did mean filthy.