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

by Unknown

  He soared through a star-field of twinkling glass, the remnants of the shattered windshield. Shards gnawed at his chin and forehead but he felt no pain.

  Then the glass was gone, and there was only night.

  The valley spread out before him like a mural.

  Jared felt weightless.

  Free.

  He was flying.

  Flying.

  The sensation was better than any dream. The world began to tilt, turning on its axis. Total circumference of the landscape spinning past to reveal…

  The Buick.

  Oh yeah, the Buick, Jared thought, brain blissed-out in a euphoric haze. The guardrail was twisted round it like a bow. Steam plumed from the cracked grill, wheels spinning uselessly as the vehicle crested the edge of the cliff. Jared’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of himself in the front seat. Well, part of himself anyway. His hands were frozen to the steering wheel, locked in a death grip. There was a fountain where his head ought to be, painting the interior dark red. Through the crimson spray, he saw Mr. Lucky. It was hard to tell if he was screaming or laughing.

  Maybe it was a bit of both.

  A grim smile spread across Jared’s lips, which were fast turning a sick shade of blue. Mr. Lucky spun away, and the cliff face came into view, racing past in a blur. Gravity had taken hold. Jared was no longer in flight, but freefall. He had climbed to the top of the roller coaster and was contemplating the plummet down. That was usually the moment his stomach dropped. Of course, with no stomach to upset, he was able to enjoy the moment in a way he never had. The thought made him laugh, but no sound came out.

  The ground below whirled into view for a moment before it was replaced by the sky, then the Buick. Jared was grateful to have had a second look, however brief. It was a comfort to know it had gone over properly. Now that he thought about it, the back wheels could’ve snagged on the guardrail, and he would have died for nothing. The Buick became the cliff face became the sky became the ground as the valley floor rushed up to greet him. Jared wondered how long it’d been. Fifteen seconds, was that what Mr. Lucky had said?

  The world spun faster.

  Ten? Twenty?

  A smear of color swallowed by darkness.

  Thir—

  God flipped the switch in Jared’s head to the off position, glazed eyes staring as head met earth. His skull cracked on impact, head bouncing from the path of the Buick as if by design, the vehicle touching down in a cacophony of screaming metal.

  Mr. Lucky failed to emerge from the wreckage this time.

  No way on God’s Green Earth…

  Jared’s fractured, lifeless noggin tumbled to a stop, still grinning despite having landed in a bed of cactus. He had plenty to smile about. He had redeemed himself. He had killed the bad guy. He had won.

  One last snippet of Nat King Cole’s Christmas album warbled distorted from fractured speakers…

  The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head,

  the stars in the sky looked down where He lay,

  the little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay…

  From the corner of Jared’s mouth, the larva inched down his chin and through a minefield of cactus needles. The lonely survivor made its way to the ground, crawled across the soil and into a bed of weeds.

  A beautiful butterfly growing inside.

  QUEEN OF THE GROUPIES

  GREG KIHN

  THE ROAD TO rock and roll heaven is paved by the bleached skulls of guys like him,” I read aloud from the Cleveland Plain Dealer. It was a review of our gig at the Agora Ballroom the night before.

  Skull took a drag on his Marlboro. Bass players always ask the right questions. “Guys like who?”

  “I guess he means me.”

  “Well, that’s a snotty thing to say. I thought we rocked.”

  “We did rock. But, different people see the same things differently. Maybe he’s into prog.”

  “What does he know anyway? The little shit can’t even play an instrument.”

  Skull’s logic was irrefutable. He would never presume to tell somebody else how to do their job, unless he could do it himself, only better.

  Rock critics never truly connect with musicians for that very reason. The code of rock makes them forever outsiders. The code forbids anything even remotely hostile to the “us against the world” ethos to which we swore allegiance. It was the lifeblood of any band. We lived by that code. Sometimes it was the only thing holding the band together. As long as there was another gig, the code stuck. It was, and would always be, “us against the world.”

  Back in the day, our band stayed on the road for months at a time. We had to; it was the only way to maintain a cash flow. We were on a small record company with a tiny budget. To save money, we always leased old tour buses from a company in Nashville. These were worn-out, older coaches with colorful histories and threadbare seats. They smelled too.

  We stood in front of the Swingo’s Celebrity Palace hotel and waited for our new wheels to arrive for the next leg of an endless tour. A thick, icy fog swirled around the streetlights, which were already illuminated at 5:30 on this bleak January evening.

  Skull lit another cigarette as he ground the last one, still burning, into the dirty snow.

  “I sure hope this next bus is better than that last piece of shit. The heater never worked the entire time, and I froze my ass off.”

  I squinted up the street. I heard it before I saw it. The terrible grinding of gears and rattling of linkage sounded almost alive. It snarled at the traffic around it.

  Then, the light changed and around the corner came a battered Silver Eagle coughing smoke and belching fire. It emerged from the freezing mist like a ghost ship. Its headlights pierced the fog like two tired eyes after a twelve-hour drive. The front bumper sagged downward into a frown. The brakes hissed, and it rolled to a stop right in front of us.

  “This is the worst tour bus I’ve ever seen,” said Skull. “I ain’t riding in this death trap.”

  “Oh, yes you are,” road manager Brett Krebs said firmly. “We were lucky to get this one. Everything’s booked. The next gig’s in Minot, North Dakota. That’s over a thousand miles from here. It’s a two-day drive. We’ll be lucky to make it. I’ll look into getting us another bus after next week. This one will have to do for now. Sorry, boys. Don’t complain to me, complain to management. I’m just a hired hand.”

  “These dartboard tours are pretty rough on the band, Brett.”

  “Hey, I don’t book this shit, I just make sure you get there on time.”

  The door to the bus hissed and swung open with a metallic screech. The sound made us jump. It was dark inside. Brett leaned in and said something. The engine died with a heaving sigh. We could hear someone stirring.

  A dwarfish man wearing a big, black cowboy hat stepped out. He was no more than five-two, with the hat. He sported a thin Fu Manchu goatee and carried a half-burned cigar between his stubby fingers. His jeans and shirt were wrinkled and funky.

  When he spoke, his voice sounded as rough as sandpaper.

  “I’m Jimmy. Y’all are the band, right?”

  Brett said, “That’s us. I’ve got the contract right here.”

  “Okay, well, you boys might as well get your gear stowed while I talk business with this gentleman. We’re leavin’ right away. We got a mighty long drive ahead.”

  Skull looked at me with a pained expression. He shook his head in disgust.

  Jimmy tossed me the keys to the locked storage compartment below the bus. It was a rectangular cargo bay that ran almost the length of the bus, with two big fold-down doors. The undercarriage of the bus was splattered with mud and ice. I squatted and looked at the lock. As I did so, I momentarily lost my balance and my hand shot out for the cargo door to break my fall.

  The door was colder than ice. Unnaturally cold. So cold that my hand drew away stinging. I shook it vigorously.

  “What the hell?”

  Skull said, “Let’s get the damn thing open
and get the luggage and the guitars in there.”

  I looked at the lock and examined the keys in my hand. I selected the logical one and, careful not to make skin contact with the door, fit it into the keyhole. I twisted the key, and the door swung down with a sudden bang. Our lone roadie, Cliff, watched with amusement.

  “Careful! Those things can bite.”

  I peered into the belly of the beast and shivered. It was a dark and ominous space. I got a bad feeling. The gloom seemed to pour out of it, as if the darkness there had weight and substance. Then a sharp, sickeningly sweet odor hit me and almost made me gag.

  I staggered back from the bus as if I’d sniffed ammonia.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Can’t you smell that?”

  “Smell what? There’s nothing there. Why don’t you go topside and pick out a bunk? Me and Skull can load this stuff.”

  I didn’t want to be near that cargo bay. I went around to the front of the bus and peered inside. Again, an oppressive melancholy feeling swept over me. As my eyes adjusted I could see faded brown upholstery, a fold-down table, and a tiny microwave oven. The interior smelled like stale cigarettes and spilled beer. I stepped up and into the lounge area.

  The bus had seen better days. It was scuffed and battered, with duct tape holding a few of the overhead doors shut. In the corner a small television jutted out of the wall. The kitchenette was clean but worn. A half-size refrigerator clicked and farted.

  I walked down the aisle and peered into the bunks. They were identical coffin-sized compartments with a reading light at one end and a tiny window. A curtain could be drawn for privacy. There was just enough room to lie down and prop yourself up on one elbow. I picked a lower bunk and threw my bag in to claim it, hating the idea of actually having to sleep in that claustrophobic little hole.

  I kept walking until I reached the back lounge. There were two small couches and another TV. It seemed like the least forbidding place on the bus so I sat down and looked out the window. The baggage compartment doors slammed shut, and the rest of the band filed onboard.

  Jimmy climbed behind the wheel. He had special extenders so he could reach the floor pedals. He fired up the massive engine, and the bus rumbled to life. We pulled away from the hotel in a cloud of blue exhaust smoke.

  “This bus gives me the creeps,” I said as Skull entered the lounge.

  “It’s a Cleveland Steamer.”

  I laughed. It was a phrase we had learned last night at the gig. It meant a steaming dog turd on a snowbank.

  Skull sat down and busied himself rolling a joint.

  “Might as well break it in right,” he said.

  I went to the closet-sized bathroom to pee. There was barely room to stand. I leaned against the door to steady myself in the moving bus. As I finished, I happened to glance up and look in the mirror. I saw a young girl wearing bright red lipstick standing behind me. I looked around, and she was gone. I looked back in the mirror, and she had vanished. I smelled a faint, familiar scent. It hung in the air, and I tried to identify it.

  “Did you see a chick in here just now?” I asked Skull.

  “Nope. If there was a chick on this bus I would know it, man.”

  Skull lit the joint and took a big hit. With his lungs full of smoke, in a constricted voice he said, “Maybe it was a ghost.”

  The miles rolled monotonously under our wheels. Ten hours passed. The bus was like a submarine. Das Boot. The band moved around the bus with restless energy. Skull sat with Joey the drummer and lead guitarist Reed Wayne. They drank beer and watched a video of Dirty Harry.

  I sat behind Jimmy. The strange little man seemed part of the bus. He shoved the pedals down with his extenders and grunted. CB radio chatter filled the cockpit, and Jimmy nursed a cup of coffee. Out in the darkness, guys with names like Greasy Diesel and Road Dog were holding deep and meaningful conversations. In the dashboard light, Jimmy’s face took on a surreal, distorted look. I saw it reflected on the windshield against the inky road ahead. He looked positively manic.

  More time passed. The bus rolled on through the bleak night, on the Hank Williams Lost Highway. When you’re constantly in motion, the world is not the same. Ken Kesey was right. You’re either on the bus or you’re not.

  I yawned and tried to push my misgivings out of my mind. I walked back to my bunk. Reed and Joey had already turned in. I flipped on the reading light and looked inside. It looked okay so I climbed in with my clothes on. I pulled a stiff, gray blanket over me and drew the curtain shut. The stinky little pillow was cold against my cheek. I closed my eyes and tried not to think.

  I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes, the reading light was still on, and the curtain was still closed. Except now, the bunk seemed much smaller. The ceiling was now inches from my nose. I started to feel claustrophobic. While I watched, the whole sleeping compartment began to shrink around me. The walls inched closer, the ceiling lowered, I reached up and pushed with my hands. It wouldn’t budge. I felt panic rise and kicked against the wall with my foot. I rolled out of the bunk and hit the floor with my head. I looked back into my bunk, and it was normal again.

  I immediately noticed that I had a throbbing erection. I lay on the floor, wondering if it was all a dream. When the erection began to subside, I climbed to my feet and headed for the restroom. I looked in the mirror right away, but saw nothing. I peered closer at my face. There was red lipstick on my cheek.

  I wiped it with my hand, and it came off on my fingers. I looked at it in disbelief. Was I going crazy?

  I exited the restroom and saw a light on in the back lounge. Skull was in there swigging Jack Daniels right out of the bottle. He’d been smoking joints all night. He looked up at me in a daze and smiled.

  “Hey, man!”

  I sat down next to him. “Weird shit’s been happening on this bus, man. Just now, my bunk started closing in on me. Then I woke up with a huge boner, and I found lipstick on my cheek.”

  Skull snorted. “So? That shit happens to me all the time.”

  “No, I really mean it. The bunk was closing in on me.”

  He handed me the bottle of Jack. “You need this, brother. May it serve you well.”

  “I think this bus is haunted.”

  Skull looked at me with one eye open. “Cool.”

  He flopped back in the seat and started to snore. I put the bottle down and wandered back to the front of the bus. It was dark except for Jimmy’s diminutive silhouette illuminated by the ghostly light.

  He was talking to somebody. Then, I clearly heard a girl laugh. I could smell that scent again. Then it hit me: clove cigarettes. I only knew a few people who smoked cloves. Whenever you smelled it, you knew one of them was around.

  I moved forward into the main cabin like a cat, careful not to give myself away. When I got closer, I saw the same girl I had seen earlier in the mirror. She stood next to Jimmy, rubbing his leg. They murmured to each other. She was smoking a clove cigarette.

  I heard him say, “You’re my pearl, Roxie, and I’m the only one that loves you.”

  I studied her face. She wore bright red lipstick, the same color I found on my cheek. It was overapplied and went over her lips. It gave her a slightly bizarre look. Apart from the smeared lipstick, she was beautiful, with pale skin and long blond hair hanging down her back. She wore a little black party dress and white cowboy boots.

  At that moment the bus hit a bump, and one of the doors on the overhead bins popped open with a loud bang. Jimmy and the girl looked back and saw me. I stood there, the proverbial deer in the headlights. As I watched, she disappeared.

  I rubbed my eyes. Yes, by God, suddenly and mysteriously, she was gone! In the blink of an eye, I saw it, but I didn’t believe it.

  I walked up to Jimmy’s seat. His eyes were now glued to the road ahead, and he pretended nothing had happened.

  “Who is she, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy looked at me with world-weary eyes. He waited a beat, then sighed. “He
r name is Roxie.”

  “Is she a ghost?”

  He nodded.

  “You want to tell me the story?”

  Jimmy re-lit his cigar and settled back in his seat. “I guess I owe it to you. Y’all are payin’ customers. You have a right to know.”

  He took a puff of his cigar and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. Jimmy was not a good-looking guy, but his face softened, and I think I saw the hint of a tear in the corner of his eye. He took off his cowboy hat and ran a hand through his greasy thin hair. He put the hat back on and cast me a sideways glance.

  “Once, a long time ago, this bus was new. It was owned by Billy Boy Soams. I was his driver.”

  “The legendary country singer?”

  Jimmy nodded. “He was a real hell raiser, let me tell ya. Billy Boy had some major demons eatin’ away at him, that’s for sure. He liked his whisky and his cocaine. And his women. Oh, Lord, the women! He loved bright red lipstick, and he made all the girls wear it. He dressed ’em up the way he liked and had his way with ’em. Billy had parties every night on this bus. His groupies were unbelievable. Crazy, wild, shameless women who just wanted a good time. Billy gave it to them, as long as they wore the lipstick. He was funny about that.”

  Jimmy paused and looked back to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Satisfied that we were alone, he continued.

  “Roxie started comin’ around to the gigs. Billy took a shine to her. Who wouldn’t? She was a beautiful girl. He took her on the bus from town to town, his own little pleasure unit. She was a wild child, let me tell you, a real spitfire. Among the groupies, Roxie was the queen of them all. But, you know how it is. Billy was always messin’ around, and one night she caught him naked with another girl in the lounge back there.” He nodded toward the back of the bus.

  “Billy always had guns layin’ around, and she grabbed one and tried to kill him. She missed, but she shot up the bus pretty good. Anyway, Billy thought she was a little too crazy for his taste so he kicked her off the bus.