At the doctor’s office he received angry stares and few disgruntled murmurs from people in the waiting room as his name was called within minutes of his arrival. Skipping the waiting room was about the only perk his surgery came with.
“Corbin,” the doc said, entering the small examining room. “How’s it going?”
“Until a week ago, great,” Corbin said, hating the doctor’s office, more so since his surgery.
“Let’s have a look.” The doctor reviewed Corbin’s chart, flipping through pages and rubbing his chin.
The stethoscope was cold on his back and warm by the time it reached his chest.
“No congestion or blockage,” the doc said before moving onto other instruments. He checked his temp again even though the nurse had already done so, his ear canals, and nasal passageways. All were fine.
“Been taking any new over the counter medications?”
“Nope.”
“Eat any new foods?”
“Nope.”
“Go anywhere new? Out of the country?”
“Nope.”
The doctor held his finger under his chin as if in deep thought. “Everything on my end checks out. I’ll send you over to Doctor Rein’s office to get an MRI of your head. We’ll take some blood before you leave and should have the results in a day. Rush order for you, Corbin.” The doctor winked.
“You don’t think it’s the transplant?”
“Definitely not. It’s taken to you like it was yours all along. Hardly a blemish on it.”
“Thanks, doc.” Corbin said, feeling a little better.
“No problem. The nurse will be in shortly to get your blood and I’ll phone Doctor Rein’s office that you’ll be there within the hour.”
The next day the doctor called Corbin on his cell. The blood test and MRI were normal on all accounts.
“Any idea what it could be?” he asked.
“Who knows? Could be the weather or stress. Either way I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Take a few days off from work, get some rest. Any more problems, give me a call.”
“Thanks for the speedy service, doc, I really appreciated it.”
“For you, Corbin, not a problem.”
Corbin had placed a lot of hope in doctors’ hands before his surgery and wasn’t about to stop now. He hung up the phone feeling assured that he’d be fine.
That night he had a dream he was driving in his car and stopped at the Hunter and Gun Depot just outside of town. He’d never had an interest in guns, never owning one, but he went into the store nonetheless.
The place was a hunter’s haven. Camouflage jackets, t-shirts, hats, and pants lined the isles. Some items were mixed with a roadside orange, giving the matter a cautionary ware. Displays for bows and riffles and turkey callers assaulted him from everywhere. A few customers patrolled the isles. Corbin approached the glass counter. Knives of various sizes, compasses, and numerous other survival equipment lay inside the glass counter’s display.
.30-30’s, SKS’s, .22’s, shotguns of varying gauges, all lined the wall behind the counter, locked together like a chain gang in a coma.
Corbin wasn’t sure how, but he knew the names of the guns and the one he wanted.
“May I help you,” an elderly man said. He had bushy white mustache, red, white, and blue striped suspenders and a hat that read, “Rob Me and Die Trying.”
Unsure why, but feeling compelled, Corbin said, “I’ll take the .12 gauge single pump action and a box of buckshot.” Why had he just asked for a gun? And how the hell did he even know what to ask for, let alone the type of ammo? The elderly man rang Corbin up.
Corbin placed the items in the trunk of his car before settling into the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut, immediately awakening to the relentless beeping of his clock-radio’s alarm.
He remembered the dream as if it had been real, its vividness haunting long after waking. What were these strange dreams he was having? Corbin, needing answers, got in his car and drove to the Hunter and Gun Depot store.
He parked out front and went in. His mouth hung open like a sedated psych patient’s. The store resembled his dream down to the littlest detail. All the cardboard cutouts of deer, the camouflage clothing, but the most disturbing part of all was the elderly, mustache and suspender wearing man. Corbin had never been in the store, having barely glanced at it while driving by.
“Back already?” the man said, spotting Corbin.
“Was I in here yesterday?”
The man smiled. “You playing some type of game, mister?” His stare disapproving.
“The gun, I bought a gun.”
The man’s eyebrows went up, confusion evident on his face. “That’s right,” he said. “You need something else?”
“No,” Corbin said. “Thanks, sorry I bothered you. Bad day is all.” He left the store quickly, racing home.
Corbin tore through his house, searching for the shotgun. He checked the closets, basement, attic, under the kitchen sink, the garage, and the entire yard, but found nothing. He sat on the couch when he was done, exhausted. What the hell was going on? Anxiety, like an electric current, coursed through his body making his mind scramble for reality.
Corbin went to his medicine cabinet, downed a few anti-anxiety pills and within minutes, had calmed. He called his doctor who told him to speak with his psychiatrist.
“It must be an old memory,” doctor Rosenburg said, over the phone. “Your subconscious is releasing it as a defense mechanism to a recent trauma or stressful event. Hence, the buying of the gun.”
“I’ve never been in that store, doc,” Corbin said, his voice a bit shaky.
“It’s not uncommon for patients who’ve undergone a drastic experience, such as your procedure, to have memory loss or memory gain.”
“Bullshit,” Corbin said. “How the hell do you explain the gun knowledge? I’ve never owned or cared to own one.”
“You may have seen it on a television show. Shotguns are pretty common. Buying it was most likely your mind’s way of telling you to get protection. You may feel vulnerable and exposed. I’ll make you an appointment and we’ll adjust the meds if necessary.”
“Doc, the guy recognized me.” Corbin felt his insides churn, a panic attack on the threshold of his mind, but the medications held.
“Can you see me tomorrow?” the doc said, “say eight a.m.?”
“You think something’s wrong?”
“No, no. Maybe a minor adjustment. Sometimes the anti-rejection drugs can have an adverse reaction to psychological medication.”
The next morning the psychiatrist lowered Corbin’s usual dosage of anti-anxiety drugs, telling him it was most likely the combination. It was time to lower the dose anyway, eventually wean him off completely. He left the doctor’s office feeling a little more confident than when he’d entered.
Later that night, shortly after diner, Corbin blacked out again. He awoke five hours later, blood splattered on his shirt, the shotgun resting on the living room coffee table.
He must have done something. Feeling nauseous, he ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. He washed his face with cold water in the sink after flushing the toilet. With a water beaded his face, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. “What have you done?” he said, speckles of blood dotting his shirt like freckles.
Corbin ran downstairs, stripped naked, shoes and all, tossing the items into the fireplace before burning them. He smashed the stock off of the shotgun and threw both pieces into the fire, after making sure the gun was empty. He’d seen enough movies, knowing to pump the gun until no more shells ejected from the chamber, and any blood evidence on the gun would be destroyed in the fire.
He showered, bleaching the tub when he was finished. Having no idea what he’d done, he needed to be careful. The police could be on the way to his house. Destroying evidence was key to keeping him out of jail while he figured out what the hell was going on.
Unable to sleep he watched the ne
ws. It was the same garbage every night, murder, death, floods, fires, accidents, and a plethora of other negativity, but he had to watch. When the news was over, Corbin felt satisfied that nothing during the broadcast had involved him. Finding himself bushed he went to sleep.
Corbin dreamt. He found himself in his car, driving across town to Cedar Grove Estates and parking in front of the large Victorian house from the earlier dream.
He climbed out of the car, grabbed the shotgun from the backseat and began loading shells as if he were a seasoned S.W.A.T. officer. He scaled the stairs, light emanating from the windows, someone was home. The sidewalks were barren, void of people as if the neighborhood were nothing but model homes. A calm breeze, like a cool whisper, blew across his face. Corbin knocked on the door, began pounding, angrily, when no one answered.
“Yeah, yeah,” a man’s voice said from inside, “hold on a sec.”
Corbin heard the jumbling of a lock opening, the hairs on his neck upright with anticipation. The door opened.
“What is it?” the man asked, annoyance in his voice. He stood about six feet, his t-shirt hanging off his bones, revealing him to be a frail, almost sickly, looking person. Corbin’s eyes watered as an overwhelming stench of alcohol assaulted his nose. The man took a moment to focus, a look of horror coming over him. “You,” he said, putting a hand over his heart, his eyes the size of ping pong balls. “You’re dead. I killed you.”
Corbin, unable to control his hatred, kicked the man in the gut sending him tumbling down a small set of carpeted stairs. Corbin ran into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Standing in the small foyer way, Corbin looked down the crumpled heap. The man, thankfully, was still breathing.
Corbin walked down the stairs, the man moaning in pain. “My head, I hit my head.”
“Get up, asshole,” Corbin said. As if hearing himself from a distance and only allowed to watch.
“This can’t be. You’re dead. I hit you with my car.”
Corbin dragged the man to his feet. “Walk,” he said, prodding the man’s back with the gun.
“You’re alive, but how?” he asked.
“Shut up,” Corbin said. They climbed the stairs to the kitchen. “Sit.”
The man sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. Corbin glanced around. Empty bottles of whiskey and cheap vodka filled the sink. Bills and moldy, what looked like bread, cluttered the kitchen table. The counter was lined with filthy dishes and smears of dried grape jelly.
“I have a problem,” the man said. “I like to drink.”
“Yes, it is a problem.”
Corbin, rage igniting his innards, whacked the man upside his head with the butt of the weapon. The man cried as he held his scalp.
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” He tried groping Corbin’s shirt like a beggar. “Please, please, I’m so sorry. I got out of my car, checked on you, but you were a goner. All messed up and broken. I couldn’t stay, there was nothing I could’ve done and the cops would’ve arrested me.” Corbin raised the shotgun, pointing the barrel at the man’s skeletal chest. The man’s crotch began darkening, the stench of urine filling the air. “Please, don’t,” the man pleaded, hands and fingers grouped together in false prayer. “I’ll get help, besides, you’re okay now. You didn’t die.”
“Look at me. Really look at me,” Corbin said.
The man’s eyebrows scrunched together, a look of confusion upon his face. “I don’t understand. You walked in here without a limp. You’re body was broken. I saw your bones sticking out of your skin. Only your face was untouched.” The man’s expression turned to fright, as if he realized the man before him wasn’t the man he’d killed, but a resurrected monster. The pitiful man trembled, as if electrocuted, and reached out to touch Corbin’s face.
“This is for leaving my wife without a husband and my daughter without a father.” The man’s chest exploded as Corbin fired the weapon. The body tumbled over backwards, chair and all. The blast was deafening, Corbin’s ears rung as his nostrils filled with the odor of cordite.
“I saved your face too,” Corbin said.
The Serial Killer’s Ghoul
The graveyard was at rest, a low hanging fog hugged the ground, tombstones showing through like frozen ghosts. The cemetery dated back to the mid 1800’s. It was named after the Grending family, the first prominent people to settle the area. No new graves had been dug for years; the weeds and tall grass flourishing. With no relatives left alive to visit, the graveyard had begun melding into its surroundings, becoming a part of the landscape.
The place was miles from town, and off of the main roads. The wild vegetation and rancid odor from the nearby bog kept people away; the town forgetting the long dead. It was the reason Brian Hinkerly, a dentist, had bound the ghoul there.
He parked his Chevy Tahoe behind a blossoming lilac tree, hiding it from view of the road. The nearest residence was a good three miles away, but he had to be vigilant. If a body was ever discovered, the ghoul unable for whatever reason to finish its meal, Brian wanted no one to be able to identify him. As desolate an area as Grending Cemetery was, there was always the chance someone could wander into it. In today’s world no place was too remote or unreachable.
The young woman, Harriet Baker, lay in the back of the truck. Brian opened the rear hatch, grabbed a lantern and slung the strap over his shoulder. He would need two hands for the task ahead. The woman was beginning to stir. He grabbed her ankles and yanked her out of the vehicle. The woman landed hard on the muddy ground, splattering Brian’s plastic covered shoes with muck. Her feet and wrists were bound with barbed wire while duct tape covered her mouth. A line of mucus trailed from her left nostril like an alien worm.
Brian shut the hatch, locked the car and grabbed the woman’s ankles before he started dragging her.
She shook her head back and forth, her long blonde hair wild and picking up twigs and leaves. She attempted to scream, but the duct tape over her mouth kept her quiet. He laughed at her writhing and inaudible pleading, dragging her up the inclined rocky path to the graveyard.
He stopped outside of the cemetery gates. They were wrought iron, made from fine craftsmanship, with two gargoyles perched atop. Years of rain, wind, and snow, rusted the iron work, making them appear ancient.
He always kept the gate partially open, enough to fit himself through. If anyone came along, he wanted it to look as if no one had visited the place.
He brought the woman through, pulling her a few feet inside the yard before letting go of her ankles. She continued to struggle and moan in pain, her back bruised from having been hauled over jagged rocks.
Brian pulled a small gutting knife from his pocket. Easily concealed, it was his favorite weapon of choice for small, deep incisions. He bent down next to the whining female and sliced a one inch line down the inside of her right wrist. Then he did the same to her left wrist. The blood flowed from the wound, darkening the bottom of the tall grass. It kept coming, as if she was overfilled; the heart pumping faster to counteract the loss of pressure. Brian watched, feeling a rush of pleasure. He supposed it was what normal people got out of great sex. Copulation, to him, was unfulfilling, like a lion eating lettuce for dinner. A slow, agonizing, kill is what got him off.
“Yes,” he said to the woman as she stared, horrified, at him. “This is really happening. That water I offered you earlier had an anti-coagulant in it. Don’t want you clotting now, do we?”
The woman’s eyes went wide and she began to shake, tears flowing from the corners of her eyes. Brian watched as the minutes turned to hours, transfixed by the gruesome scene. Her fear filled him with power as if he were taking a piece of her soul. The woman had gone from screaming and crying to docile and sleepy. She had a couple of inaudible pleadings, her strength fading. Her eyelids slowly began to lower, death seeping in. He loved to watch his victims fight, but it was useless. Death always came. He knew when it was time, leaning in and lowering his ear to her mouth, wait
ing for it. It came, the last breath. He shuddered, moaning in ecstasy.
The sun dipped below the horizon just after the woman passed. He took hold of the lantern, and using a lighter, ignited the wick. It had four glass sides, three covered with black paint to cut down on the glow. It was unlikely he’d be seen, but took precautions anyway.
With dead flesh lying about, it wouldn’t be long before the ghoul came out of the bog, the place it dwelled. The creature needed a constant supply of dead meat and lived off the swamp’s critters when human flesh wasn’t available.
He heard the ghoul’s moaning before seeing it emerge out of the gloom from across the way. The creature ambled over, almost limping. Its skin, covered in rot and littered with oozing sores, had an olive tint to it. Eyes like swollen olives were sunken in to its skull, the pupils nothing more than tiny specs of black. The ghoul was hungry for dead human flesh, the bodies in the yard all but decaying skeletons with no meat left. Brian marveled at the creature; something dead, yet alive. He had offered it living flesh once, but the thing refused. The monster had instead torn the woman’s throat open, and waited for her to die, then feasted on the corpse.
The ghoul had been resurrected from Brian’s first victim, a woman he’d picked up hitchhiking. He brought her to his house where he slashed her throat, killing her. Her tremendous loss of blood was euphoric, but hadn’t lasted long enough. It took him until the fifth kill to find his ultimate pleasure--the slow bleed-outs. He buried the woman in his backyard, afraid to transport her remains and dump her body elsewhere. The fear of getting pulled over was too great. It was, he’d imagined, how a lot of criminals were caught.
After his sixth kill, he realized he was a novice serial killer and would need guidance. Using the internet he researched thousands of websites and articles about serial killers. Since he was one, he needed to study them, learn their ways and mistakes. One day while searching the web, he came upon a link leading him to a website called, Raising of the Dead for Personal Gain. It had a site counter at the bottom. He was visitor number four since the site’s inception ten years ago. Strange, he had thought at the time. From the material on the website he learned about zombies and ghouls. Zombies ate the living and ghouls ate the dead, the latter often roaming graveyards at night and feeding off of the corpses. At first Brian had thought the whole thing a joke, not taking it seriously. He sent the website’s owner an email, asking what he needed to do in order to bring a person back from the dead and serve his needs. He received a two word reply: The Undeath.
Another Man's Wife plus 3 Other Tales of Horror Page 3
