Dark Delicacies II: Fear; More Original Tales of Terror and the Macabre by the World's Greatest Horror Writers

by Unknown

  “No more.” Who said that?

  He will betray his friends, of this there is no doubt; babble and wail incoherently until he has spilled everything and anything to avoid what Neumann has been doing with that probe, those needles and the drugs. It must stop.

  I was really there, the prisoner thinks, frantically. I was not here I was really there, back in that mound of snow. He swallows, forces words: “I’ll talk.”

  A chair squeaks as the colonel shifts around in the gloom. “But of course you will, Cassidy. Why not? Most of your friends already have.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Give me their names.”

  “Please. I can’t.”

  “No?” The chair again, complaining. “Apparently you need more motivation. Neumann? We may as well give him that last one again.”

  The prisoner suddenly comes to a decision. “Okay, okay,” he cringes, “but please not the emptiness again. Not that. I can’t bear it.”

  Dr. Neumann slows for a second, absorbing the content of the sentence. He quickly consults his notes, locates the area now specified as “emptiness,” and looks for permission to return to that particular section of exposed brain. Apparently the Colonel nods, for Neumann adjusts position and resumes probing.

  The surgeon actually whispers, “I’m sorry” as he presses down… A bronze young woman with long, brown hair and almond eyes is dancing through the cool spray of the backyard sprinkler, it is Martine and she wears a man’s white tee shirt, the wet fabric flatters her body and reveals tantalizingly pert nipples and a wet triangle of her sex…

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  … Martine smiles broadly and she winks and waves. Cassidy looks down to examine his hands and finds them calloused; his arms are strong and roped with a young man’s muscle…

  “Answer me damn it, what’s wrong?”

  … She approaches, her hips swaying, and he walks to meet her, and both space and time are standing still…

  “Did you lose him?”

  “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Look at him. He’s a drooling vegetable, that’s what happened.”

  “Some form of catatonia, perhaps?”

  … The sun beats down on bare skin lathered with sweat and sunscreen and a body loosened by enjoyable physical labor…

  “Idiot! He is of no use to me like this.”

  “Doctor,” the nurse calls, urgently, “the patient is no longer breathing.”

  “What?”

  “Flatline.”

  “Bring him back!”

  “We are trying. Clear. Clear.”

  “Doctor…?”

  … It is sunny day but not a dry one—Cassidy sees a stretch of damp, sparkling backyard grass and hears the twirling hiss of a lawn sprinkler. And then she is there again, smiling.

  Martine.

  Free. I am free…

  Wait.

  The patient opens his bloodshot eyes. The surgeon is a squat, balding gnome with teeth like chipped piano keys. Quinn is confused and frightened and does not remember anything, anything at all, except for his name.

  The surgeon pats his hand in a macabre parody of bedside manner.

  “This may hurt a bit.”

  WHAT THE DEVIL WON’T TAKE…

  L. A. BANKS

  HOWLING WINDS WHIPPED at the hem of their black robes. Voices escalated in a cacophony of assent. “Let it be so!” Stern faces, etched hard with determination, were washed pale in the moonlight. Twelve men of means stood shoulder-to-shoulder united in a clearing. One had come upon an ancient book given to him by a bereft victim’s family.

  The woman had made a scene before them. She had shrieked out her complaint as she was carried away. “If you don’t believe, call it! Tell the truth and shame the Devil! You know what happened to my child!”

  Curiosity drove them to hear the woman’s impassioned plea. Anger and indignation made them honor it. She needed twelve men to perform the ritual after innocent blood had spilled. Her daughter’s blood had soaked the ground of a crime scene. That was a fact. But they were learned men, men of reason. This was not reasonable. And there was plenty of doubt.

  What they called was something that the Devil wouldn’t take and the angels had left behind. The entity was a netherling, something left over from the early days of the Titans, a justice harbinger that could do great harm or great good, both in one, based upon the whims of the caller. Alone, the entity was neutral. But once summoned, it could be lethal. That’s what the book claimed.

  They had all talked about it over cigars and brandy, each with their own theories. Another had it appraised at Sotheby’s and found that it was the real McCoy… something worth millions simply based on its historic value. It had been given to them with witnesses. They could sell it and share in the profits; ownership had transferred. But before they reaped the lucrative benefits from the ill-begotten text, one scholarly member of their very small fraternity decided to have a read. Then another wanted to test the authenticity of the eerie verbiage contained therein, placing a wager on the content.

  Initially it was all folly, all interesting conversation amid so much boredom and the mundane.

  Twelve frustrated judges stood in a wooded clearing, clearing their consciences, clearing their dockets, clearing the way for absolute justice, having learned over time that what was legal wasn’t necessarily ethical, and what was ethical wasn’t necessarily legal.

  But every single one of them was tired of watching the guilty walk on a technicality. Every single one of them was ready for a netherling to attend their court proceedings. Every single one of them wished they could have convicted the serial killer that snuffed out young women’s lives in the most gruesome way… wished they could have comforted that anguished mother’s wails, wished they could have put a barbarian in the chair.

  Unfortunately, polite society had rules, and the shadow of a reasonable doubt had been established. Wailing families, disturbed juries notwithstanding, they all had cases that haunted them, and would, till their graves. Child molesters, serial killers, domestic abuse that ended in death. Drug kingpin hits, drive-bys that took women and children along with rival gang members. Faulty evidence collection, frightened witnesses, shrewd attorneys, the lack of DNA. These old men were so tired. Were so disillusioned. It was just a parlor trick to amuse their bored lives. It couldn’t really work; the true value was in the antiquity of the tomb, not any real magical powers it held. Or so they thought.

  The call went unanswered and they closed the book discouraged—each never telling the others their secret hope was that what was written was true. Then they went back to their lives and their day jobs on the bench. Went back to business as usual. No justice, no peace. They cashed out and quietly sold the book to a museum, disappointed. It had all been folly.

  San Francisco…

  He had gone clear across the country to get away from the hostile community, now that the trial and allegations were over. It made sense to lie low and let things cool off for a bit. FBI would be watching; local cops were also a pain in the ass. Who cared about some drugged-out hookers anyway? They needed salvation, needed his brand of death. Each one of them was shameless in their sensuality.

  Glimpsing his reflection in the mirror behind the bar shelves, he rolled his athletic shoulders and finger-combed his dark brown hair into place. He had Hollywood good looks, if he did say so himself. His idol was Ted Bundy, serial killer extraordinaire. He’d break Bundy’s record before it was all over. He was only thirty-one and had a lot of living yet to do. The whores always came to him; it was easy pickings.

  Every single last one of them made him wrap his hands around their pretty necks to choke the life out of them. But not before making them beg, not before torturing confessions out of them. He loved to hear them tell him all the nasty, carnal things they’d done for money while whimpering on the floor. That their families sat in court and cried made him nauseous. He brought
another shot of Jack Daniels up to his lips and took a very patient sip, watching.

  Why hadn’t these grievers mourned the loss of their daughter’s innocence? Why hadn’t those drunken moms and molesting dads and concerned siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles done anything to make their prostitute daughters’ lives better? Why did they think they had a right to sit up in court and seek justice through his imprisonment or lethal injection, when they had been the ones to set the wheels in motion? He just finished the job—dead woman walking. Why weren’t they being held accountable for the lives they’d ruined by what they did or didn’t do?

  He watched another one come into the bar. Blond, just like all the others. Dressed like a real whore. Breasts pushed up so the creamy swell of her tits spilled over the black lace edge of her bra, and he could see through her filmy red shirt. Short, tight, black leather skirt, doing fishnets in red stilettos. Mouth a perfect scarlet O when she cooed in a potential customer’s ear. He’d love to see it make that shape when he was choking the shit out of her.

  She had red fingernail polish, too. He liked to save the nails, especially the acrylic ones. Her eyebrows were arched delicately and also blond. She might be a genuine one; her nipples might be pink. It was so disappointing when he found out later they weren’t, were really brunettes.

  As she bent over to reach for her dropped purse, his cock stirred. With the trial and the move, and having to lay low from the cops, it had been so long since he’d done it, had any cold, tight ass. The wheels of justice ground so slowly; over a year it took. A year held without bail, no porn to tide him over. Too much crazy shit going on in the joint, but nobody insane enough to try him. Him not wanting any trouble. A year of jacking off thinking about their pale, lifeless bodies. Then, she caught his eye.

  He nodded. As always the gentleman. That’s how you had to be if you wanted to lull them into a false sense of security. She came over and sat beside him. For a whore, she smelled good.

  “Buy you a drink?” he asked, glimpsing her from the side.

  “Yeah, that can work,” she said, sounding entitled. “But I sure could go for a cigarette. This smoking ban is bullshit.”

  He hailed the bartender, wondering if it was just idle chitchat she made with all her prospective Johns, or if she really wasn’t from the area.

  “I thought all Californians were health nuts.” He smiled at her while she smiled at him but added a scowl.

  “I wouldn’t know. I am so not from here.”

  “Ah… didn’t think so. What’ll you have?”

  “Johnny Walker, Black.” She gave him a challenging look.

  He nodded to the bartender calmly, and the man withdrew. This bitch was just asking for it. “So, where are you from?”

  “Vegas,” she said, beginning to fidget in her purse for a compact.

  He looked her over, noticing how her taut little nipples pressed against her sheer blouse. “How long are you in town for?”

  “Depends,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, accepting the drink and bringing it to her lips.

  He watched it make her lips moisten, watched how the red lipstick stained the glass.

  “You from here?” She batted her long, mascara-laden lashes at him and let her gaze take him in.

  “Depends,” he said with a half smile. This one liked to play. He might enjoy her for a while. Pulling out a huge wad of cash, he peeled off a C-note to make sure she understood that being in his company could be lucrative.

  “You know where I can get some cigarettes?” Her eyes went to his cash wad and then to his eyes. “Or anything else?”

  “Depends.” He put away his cash and went back to his drink.

  She leaned in. “I can’t openly solicit in here, or I’ll get put out, got it? I’m new and don’t have a place yet. Can’t work the streets without a man, or I’ll get my ass kicked over turf.”

  “You wanna go get those cigarettes after you finish your drink?”

  “Sure.” She tossed back her drink and stood.

  “How much?”

  She smiled. “Depends.”

  Normally he was cooler than this, more patient. But it had been a long time. Plus she was so eager and kept touching him in the elevator. This wasn’t his normal way of doing things. He liked roadside motels, the ones where you could pull a car up to your room door. The pay by the hour places were too closed in. He was feeling claustrophobic, hadn’t brought all of his tools. But maybe that was a good thing, if he changed his MO a little in a new location.

  Besides, he was so hard he couldn’t stand it. Her slender hand burned where she squeezed. She’d unbuttoned her blouse a little so he could see a half-moon glimpse of her pink nipples. Let him kiss those creamy breasts in the elevator; let his hands glide over the high-set mounds. Let his fingers trace up her black fishnets to find her wet snatch barely concealed behind a thong. Exploring her folds as the elevator lumbered to a halt, he wondered if it was him or the promise of cash that had dampened her, or if it was just lubricant that all prostitutes probably used to make clients think they were turning them on.

  The stench of urine in the hall made his eyes water. Soon she’d be cold, and he could have his way with her, as soon as the last of her life was choked away.

  He opened the door with a smile and closed it behind her.

  “I need to shoot up, too, Daddy,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse and exposing her half-covered breasts that were almost out of the cups. She quickly unhooked the back clasps and let them bounce free.

  She did have an impressive body. Really was a beautiful woman.

  “I’ll give you enough for that, like I promised… You take care of me; I’ll take care of you.”

  She walked over to him quickly, rubbed herself along his body and began working at his buckle. The moment she freed him, she dropped to her knees.

  This was the worst part, subduing his carnal nature as the victim began sucking. It felt so good, but he had to make her cold to make it right.

  “Get up,” he ordered through his teeth. “Get on the bed.”

  They liked that, whores did—liked it when you bossed them around. This one really liked it. She’d smiled brightly as she stood up. She was much prettier than the others, hard to think of her as a junkie. No tracks, no dark circles under her eyes. Beautiful, that’s why desecrating her body in this profession, with the drugs too, was such a punishable crime. That’s why he’d torture this one worse than all the others. As soon as he got the pillowcase into her mouth. He had to do it quickly, though. He had to cum soon, had to get off. “Lie down and open your legs.”

  She smiled wider and did what he’d asked, watching him stroke himself. This bitch seemed to be enjoying his pain. He had to stop jerking off so he could kill her.

  “You are so dead,” she said calmly.

  “What did you say!” he shouted, unable to stop moving his hand up and down his shaft as he stared at her breasts and exposed thatch of blond hair between her legs.

  “I said, you are so dead,” she whispered and rolled over on her side with her elbow bent and head resting on her palm.

  Now he was pissed off. He tried to take his hand away, but couldn’t. It hurt so badly he had to move it faster, up and down, trying to chase the throb.

  “Why did you kill all those women?” she asked with a sad smile. “They might have been prostitutes and junkies, but at one point, they were somebody’s child. It wasn’t your place to do that, Bob. Really, it wasn’t.”

  His heart was beating triple-time in his chest. He looked down and opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. He’d rubbed the skin off his dick; blood was dripping on the floor, exposed veins and flesh and muscle was in his grip. Then came the pain so severe he dropped to his knees.

  “Remember the cigarette burns?” she cooed.

  An invisible force stronger than him pulled his face toward her. She was covered with burns and then just as suddenly as he’d seen the image, he felt them being inflicted on him. St
ill he couldn’t make a sound, could only whimper in pain. From out of nowhere, she produced a cigarette case and withdrew one. She simply looked at the end of the cigarette she held, and it began to glow.

  Calmly she brought the lit cigarette to her lips, holding it between her slender fingers as her crimson nails began to lengthen. She pulled a long drag off it, and her mouth made a perfect O as she exhaled a smoke ring. Every sensitive place on his body sizzled and smoldered as the stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils—but no scream was allowed to escape.

  Panting from the agony, still clutching his bloody stump, he couldn’t speak as she slowly sat up. Pure terror kept him staring at her. Yes, he remembered what he’d done to each girl. But who was this bitch, what was she? How did she have such power!

  “Remember the cuts, all the long slices that took off fingernails and nipples and ruined gorgeous faces?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head no, tears rolling down his cheeks. A plea stabbed into his brain as he felt a cold blade against his left nipple, slicing. But when his eyes popped open, she was standing across the room next to the bed, bleeding with a missing left nipple.

  “Bob,” she murmured, with a yellow-fanged smile, sauntering over to him and turning into the most hideous, green-skinned gargoyle-like creature he’d ever seen. Her once-perfect body was now misshapen by wings and claws and a spaded tail, her ghoulish skin marred by every wound he’d ever inflicted on a victim. His whimpers seemed to delight her.

  “You made them suffer for hours, made them cry, and made them beg you. Made their families cry. I wonder how many women you went to trial for and how long each one of them took to die? Remember what I told you when you asked me how long I was in town for… and I said it depends?”

  Sunday morning golf was a tradition among the twelve friends. Sometimes only a few of them made it, but most assuredly, there was always a game at the club to be had. Six of the twelve had made it to the green this morning. Cell phones were off. Concentration in full swing. It was their sanctuary… it was near the place where they’d tried their boyish prank in the clearing and failed.