Come As You Are

by Steven Ramirez

  Praise

  “Ivan’s innocent and unwitting flirtation with the demonic is first-rate supernatural horror. Ramirez’s characters are beautifully defined, particularly Ivan and Hershey, the school janitor, who turns out to be much more than that. His plot is beautifully scripted and the suspense and supernatural dread emanating throughout this story make it impossible to put down until the last page is read.”

  Readers’ Favorite

  “A chilling YA horror novella. There is no telling what direction this novella is going to swing, as the surprises come quickly. Come As You Are is successful at sending chills down your spine over the course of a fast and enjoyable read.”

  Self-Publishing Review

  “Out of all the elements I liked about the collection, it is the character display that stood out the most. Ramirez truly is a master at bringing his cast to life, and then binding you to their ordeal. Overall, I think it is a stunning collection many readers will enjoy.”

  Horror Palace

  Also by Steven Ramirez

  Chainsaw Honeymoon—At fourteen, Ruby Navarro is on an insane mission to get her parents back together, and she needs her two best friends, her dog, an arrogant filmmaker, a bizarre collection of actors, and a chainsaw-wielding movie killer to do it. “In the form of Ruby, Ramirez imparts to readers all the confusion brought about by puberty; the emotional neediness camouflaged by sarcasm; the obsession and continuing frustration with boys; and the bonds female teenagers forge with one another.” — IndieReader

  Even The Dead Will Bleed (Book Three of Tell Me When I’m Dead)—In Los Angeles, Dave Pulaski is on a mission to rescue an innocent girl from a secret facility experimenting on humans, then kill the man responsible. But he encounters dark forces that will deliver him to the brink of hell. “Death, despair, and the way things are.” — Danielle DeVor, author of The Marker Chronicles

  Dead Is All You Get (Book Two of Tell Me When I’m Dead)—Fighting to protect his wife, Holly, from the hordes of undead, Dave Pulaski discovers the truth behind the contagion—a revelation that will drive him past the limits of faith and reason. “A shoot first then shoot again horror thriller of the highest order.” — Simon Oneill, author of Magic Is Murder

  Tell Me When I’m Dead (Book One of Tell Me When I’m Dead)—When a plague decimates the town of Tres Marias, recovering alcoholic Dave Pulaski, his wife, Holly, and a band of soldiers must kill the living and the dead to survive. “A hard-hitting splattergore zombie thriller, told by the ultimate antihero.” — Travis Luedke, author of The Nightlife Series

  About the Author

  Steven Ramirez is the author of the acclaimed horror thriller series Tell Me When I’m Dead. A former screenwriter responsible for the funny, bloody, and action-packed movie Killers, he has also published Chainsaw Honeymoon, a comedic young adult novel, and Come As You Are, a horror collection. Steven lives in Los Angeles. He enjoys Mike and Ikes with his Iced Caffè Americano, doesn’t sleep on planes, and wishes Europe were closer.

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  Author Website

  stevenramirez.com

  Come As You Are

  and Other Stories

  Steven Ramirez

  Copyright © 2017 by Steven Ramirez.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher at stevenramirez.com/permission.

  Glass Highway

  Los Angeles, CA

  stevenramirez.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Come As You Are / A Short Novel and Nine Stories / Steven Ramirez.—1st ed.

  Edited by Shannon A. Thompson

  Cover design by Adrijus Guscia

  For Danielle DeVor, the baddest quiet vampire I know.

  No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side.

  — Stephen King, The Stand

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Steven Ramirez

  About the Author

  Come As You Are

  Nailed It

  Brown the Recluse

  I’ve Been Better

  A Bone in the Throat

  Regino Sings

  A Proper Revenge Takes Time

  Something to Hold

  The Widow and Her Magician

  Walker

  Afterword

  Chainsaw Honeymoon Free Preview

  Come As You Are

  Ollie was the first. He was my best friend.

  My parents don’t know—can’t know—the whole story, but when it comes right down to it, none of this is even my fault. All I did was read off a bunch of words from a list I found, and the next thing I know, people are dying. Okay, there might have been some supernatural shit involved, but… It’s not like I meant for it to happen. I just wanted to keep Kirk Wardell and his loser friends from hurting me again. This was about those assholes, not me. Why did Ollie have to get mixed up in it? It was that damned freakin’ list.

  This is not my fault.

  You always wish you could control who gets what’s coming to them, like God. Sort of. But I guess it doesn’t work that way. People you never meant to harm—guys like Ollie who were cool to you and bought you a Klondike bar or a Choco Taco because you never had any money in your pocket because your dad’s been out of work since forever and your mom’s doing all she can to “stretch a dollar”—why did those people have to suffer? It makes no sense.

  So I’m sitting in my living room, waiting for the cops to be done talking to Mom and Dad. I should’ve never said anything. Then my parents wouldn’t have called them. Whatever. The detectives will want to ask me what happened at the skate park, and I will lie. Because I may be only twelve, but there’s one thing I know: you never tell the truth to the cops. Ever.

  I guess I should start at the beginning when things weren’t so bad. When Kirk and those doofs he likes to hang out with were making fun of my clothes and my shoes and my hair, and I would just take it like the poor dog next door who keeps getting beaten by Luckman, the mean old neighbor with the missing leg. All the animal does is whimper, lower his head and…take it some more. Yeah, that was pretty much the start of another bitch of a day for me.

  Me and Ollie had planned to go to Gasher’s Park right after school to ride our skateboards. We had to hurry, though, because later the high schoolers would show, and it would be over for us. We’d have to run away before those loudmouthed douches could steal our boards or fling beer bottles at our heads. It could turn into a real mess, let me tell you.

  But it was great whenever we got there early. We’d ride and ride for like, maybe half an hour. But then the shit would start. Those dickheads would storm in through the heavy chain link gate, hollering about some little pussies trying to take over their turf. It would always turn into a game of cat and mouse. I guess you know who the mice were. We’d have to try and get past them, through the gate, down the sidewalk, and onto Pear Street.

  Usually, we’d make it,
but sometimes, they would catch us and throw us up against the fence. One time, Ollie hit his head on a steel post. The blow knocked him out cold, and when he went down, those idiots got scared and took off. Maybe they thought they’d killed him.

  “Ollie, jeez!” I said, running up to him and shaking him by the shoulders.

  “Are they gone?”

  “What? Yeah, they’re gone. You mean—”

  “I was faking.”

  Then he sat up, grinning as he wiped the blood off his forehead. I wanted to kill the little turd, but instead, I hugged him.

  “Come on, Ollie,” I said, giving him my hand.

  Anyways, today was pretty much like all the other days, except we left before the shitlickers even arrived. We cut through the park like we always did. Then we decided to sit on a bench next to some old lady who was kissing her pug or whatever.

  All of a sudden, Ollie says, “Aww, man! I forgot my math homework.”

  “You’ll get it tomorrow.”

  “No, Ivan. It’s due tomorrow. I already got a D in the class, and my dad said if I fail math, he’s going to kill me.”

  “He’s not going to kill you, Ollie. It’s an exaggeration. Look, you can copy mine.”

  “You don’t understand. Mr. Ryan wrote down special instructions to help me. I need that paper.”

  Now I’m worried because Ollie is crying like a baby. I mean, big ol’ tears that magnify the freckles on his cheeks. I don’t know what to say, so I try doing a funny handstand. But I fall on my ass. I’m hoping I can make Ollie laugh. He isn’t even looking at me, though. Now I have a sore ass, and he’s still crying.

  “Tell you what, Ollie. Let’s go back to school and get your math. Come on. I’ll walk with you.”

  “Yeah?” he says. He’s smiling, green snot leaking out of his nose, and I know he’ll be okay.

  We go back the way we came, past the enclosed skate park. The high schoolers we hate are in there, swearing at each other and holding onto beers as they do tricks—backsides, Caballerials, Nollies—stuff me and Ollie are just starting to learn. One of them looks like he’s going too fast. He falls and does a wicked face-plant, his beer shattering all over the place.

  “Whoa!” someone says. “Dude…”

  As we sneak up to the gate, I recognize the kid on the ground. I’m pretty sure his name is Franklin. He’s screaming and trying to grab his face, but his friends are holding down his arms. We can see the broken neck of the beer bottle sticking out where his eye should be. I’ve never seen anything like it in real life—only in horror movies. It looks like the broken bottle gouged out the ’tard’s eye. I don’t think he even realizes how bad it is. He keeps saying over and over, “I can’t see!”

  “He’s the kid who slammed me into the pole,” Ollie says. “Remember?”

  When I turn to my friend, he’s smiling in a way that is seriously messed up.

  It takes us only a couple minutes to make it to school. Me and Ollie, we live real close, so it’s nice in the morning when we’re late and we need to run like hell to be in our seats for English before the tardy bell rings, which only happens, like, five days a week.

  As I suspect, the place is pretty much deserted. Janitors are already inside the classrooms, mopping and straightening up and whatnot. We head straight for our lockers. I figure this won’t take long. Ollie will find his stupid homework; then we’ll go to his house, because there’s never any food at my house, and Ollie says there’s always too much at his. He’ll fix me a burrito, which he likes to call a “bean and cheeser.” Later, I’ll head home alone, which is no biggie.

  Ollie is digging through his locker, looking for the “special” math paper from Mr. Ryan. I’m not doing anything, just chillin’. I look over again. Now, my friend has his stupid head stuck inside his locker. Since he’s wasting all my time, I decide to go exploring.

  There’s this old section of the school that’s closed off. Some say it’s haunted. As I stare through the chain link fence, I can see the rows and rows of old tan lockers, all of which are closed—except for one. I’d seen this locker before whenever I would pass by in the morning on my way to history. And the only reason I even noticed it at all was because it has this ugly red stain across the door—rust, I think. If you stare at that stain long enough, you begin to see stuff. Not like Jesus or aliens or anything—just weird shapes that kind of move around all swirly.

  But, like I said, today the locker is open.

  Though no one is supposed to go back there, they never keep the gate locked. I guess it’s because most of the other kids are too scared. I’ll bet it was the principal who started the “haunted” rumor. But I decide to check it out for shits and giggles, which is what my dad always used to say, back when he had a job. I open the latch and go inside. I can’t explain it, but as I move closer to the open locker, a powerful feeling comes over me. Not like fear or anything—more like anticipation. I don’t expect to find anything, but as I said, I have nothing else to do, so why the hell not?

  The door is swinging back and forth, which is nuts because there isn’t even a breeze. To prove to myself I’m not scared, I walk up and shut the door. The stain seems darker—deeper. I look at it all different ways, turning my head this way and that, squinting at it first with my right eye, then with my left. And each time, the shapes look different. If I stare at the door just right, I can almost see…

  “What the hell are you doing back here?” someone says.

  My heart almost explodes like a water balloon hitting the sidewalk. One of the janitors—this old dude named Hershey—is standing next to me with one hand holding onto his favorite cart with the squeaky wheel from hell. Hershey always smells bad—like sweat and bean farts—and he’s missing a lot of teeth. I think he was here when they built the freakin’ school. And he’s always mad. Maybe his back hurts, which is what my mom always says when some grown-up is being mean to me. Maybe their back hurts, Ivan. You should feel sorry for them.

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  He grunts, reaches over, and slams the locker shut. Then he spins the combination lock several times.

  “Stay away from here, asswipe. I won’t tell you twice.”

  Hershey turns his cart around and walks toward the gate. As I follow him, I ignore his attitude because I want to find out more about the locker. What’s the worst he can do to me anyways? He’s a janitor.

  “Hey, Hershey?”

  “Yeah?” he says, a little bit calmer now that he got to yell at a seventh grader.

  “Who did that locker belong to?”

  “No one.”

  We’re outside the fence now, and he’s on his knees, checking the supplies on the cart.

  “Well, someone must’ve used it.”

  He gets up with a groan and stares at me, his toothless pie-hole hanging open like he can’t believe someone has the balls to hit him with all these dumb questions.

  “Craig,” he says.

  “So, is he still a student here?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, he promoted then.”

  “Sure. He promoted.”

  The old man shakes his head like some sad, evil clown, which creeps me out the way Ollie did when Franklin lost his eye. I see my friend approaching, grinning and waving his math homework. The two of us are standing next to the gate, staring at the sketchy old man to see what he’ll do next. He doesn’t disappoint. Rolling his cart straight ahead, one wheel squeaking like a mouse on Spice, he walks like half a mile down, then stops and turns around.

  “Be seein’ you boys,” he says, his raspy voice making this weird echo. “Don’t forget what I said. I’ll be watching.”

  After Hershey is gone, I take another look at the locker. Amazingly, it’s open again.

  “Hey, want to see what’s inside that locker over there?”

  “I dunno, Ivan,” Ollie says. “Let’s go.”

  “Come on, you pussy. Can’t you see? Hershey was just messing with us.”

 
; “We’re not supposed to go back there. Anyway, I needa go home and start on this math.”

  “Sure you don’t want to see what’s in Craig’s locker?”

  “I gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

  I have no idea what’s gotten into my friend, but he takes off like Sonic, hopping on his skateboard and pushing off down the sidewalk.

  “Loser!”

  I take a look around to make sure Hershey is gone; then I slip back inside. Taking one more look at the locker door, I decide to open it all the way. It’s not even late, but for some reason, the interior of the locker is dark. I can barely make out anything in there. I wait for my eyes to adjust, then reach in toward the back, and I feel the familiar thin, wiry binding of a spiral notebook. Excited, I bring it out into the light. It doesn’t look all that weird. It’s old and dusty and dog-eared. The cover is flat black, with the words College Ruled embossed in silver in the lower right-hand corner.

  “What’s the big deal? Just some stupid notebook.”

  Bored and a little disappointed, I take a step back and fling it at the locker, trying to make it go inside. But it hits the corner of the opening and lands on the ground, open to the first page. I look down to see what’s written there.

  Whoever this Craig kid was, he was a pretty good artist. He’d used colored pens to create a title page, which reads, Craig’s List. The writing reminds me of something I’d seen one time at the public library. There was this traveling exhibit of famous manuscripts and crap, and I remember this style of writing is called calligraphy. That’s what the page looks like, only it isn’t real calligraphy because Craig hadn’t done it with special pens and brushes. Maybe he was like me, and all he could afford were cheap ballpoint pens.