by Jack Ketchum
Far under. Far away.
I sit and wait for someone to arrive. They'll come calling sooner or later. Night stretches; the house is silent. The clock in the hallway ticks, measuring my guilt and remorse in chronological slices.
Finally, I hear a distant shuffle, the sound of leaves rustling at the front door. I'm sure I locked it, but the hinges creak as it eases open. Slight, hesitant footsteps, the crunch of dead leaves; these sounds break the silence as I wait for someone or something to relieve my loneliness and assuage my guilt. The study door rattles, opens. Nothing but shadow beyond. A tiny shape gradually enters, brown and yellow leaves swirling at her feet as though in a breeze, yet no breeze stirs the room. I can't raise my eyes to meet hers. It would be too much, too hard. I wait for her to reach my side, to whisper in my ear that she loves me.
I try not to giggle. I fail.
She is here now, with me. I am there now, with her. We're together again.
Far under, far away.
—Joe R. Lansdale
Joe R. Lansdale is the author of over thirty novels. He has written somewhere in the vicinity of four hundred shorter works, fiction and non-fiction, essays and opinion, introductions. He has written for film, television, and comics. His novella Bubba Ho-Tep was the source for the cult film favorite of the same name. He has won numerous awards, including The Edgar, eight Bram Stokers, The British Fantasy Award, The Inkpot Award, The Herodotus Award, The Grinzani Cavour Prize for Literature, and many others. He produces films and avoids wearing stretch pants. He lives in Nacogdoches, Texas with his wife and superhero dog, Buffy.
—On a Dark October
By Joe R. Lansdale
For Dave Silva
The October night was dark and cool. The rain was thick. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds that occasionally flashed with lightning, and the sky rumbled as if it were a big belly that was hungry and needed filling.
A white Chrysler New Yorker came down the street and pulled up next to the curb. The driver killed the engine and the lights, turned to look at the building that sat on the block, an ugly tin thing with a weak light bulb shielded by a tin-hat shade over a fading sign that read BOB'S GARAGE. For a moment the driver sat unmoving, then he reached over, picked up the newspaper-wrapped package on the seat and put it in his lap. He opened it slowly. Inside was a shiny, oily, black-handled, ball peen hammer.
He lifted the hammer, touched the head of it to his free palm. It left a small smudge of grease there. He closed his hand, opened it, rubbed his fingers together. It felt just like...but he didn't want to think of that. It would all happen soon enough.
He put the hammer back in the papers, rewrapped it, wiped his fingers on the outside of the package. He pulled a raincoat from the back seat and put it across his lap. Then, with hands resting idly on the wheel, he sat silently.
A late model blue Ford pulled in front of him, left a space at the garage's drive, and parked. No one got out. The man in the Chrysler did not move.
Five minutes passed and another car, a late model Chevy, parked directly behind the Chrysler. Shortly thereafter three more cars arrived, all of them were late models. None of them blocked the drive. No one got out.
Another five minutes skulked by before a white van with MERTZ'S MEATS AND BUTCHER SHOP written on the side pulled around the Chrysler, then backed up the drive, almost to the garage door. A man wearing a hooded raincoat and carrying a package got out of the van, walked to the back and opened it.
The blue Ford's door opened, and a man dressed similarly, carrying a package under his arm, got out and went up the driveway. The two men nodded at one another. The man who had gotten out of the Ford unlocked the garage and slid the door back.
Car doors opened. Men dressed in raincoats, carrying packages, got out and walked to the back of the van. A couple of them had flashlights and they flashed them in the back of the vehicle, gave the others a good view of what was there—a burlap wrapped, rope-bound bundle that wiggled and groaned.
The man who had been driving the van said, "Get it out."
Two of the men handed their packages to their comrades and climbed inside, picked up the squirming bundle, carried it into the garage. The others followed. The man from the Ford closed the door.
Except for the beams of the two flashlights, they stood close together in the darkness, like strands of flesh that had suddenly been pulled into a knot. The two with the bundle broke away from the others, and with their comrades directing their path with the beams of their flashlights, they carried the bundle to the grease rack and placed it between two wheel ramps. When that was finished, the two who had carried the bundle returned to join the others, to reform that tight knot of flesh.
Outside the rain was pounding the roof like tossed lug bolts. Lightning danced through the half-dozen small, barred windows. Wind shook the tin garage with a sound like a rattlesnake tail quivering for the strike, then passed on.
No one spoke for awhile. They just looked at the bundle. The bundle thrashed about and the moaning from it was louder than ever.
"All right," the man from the van said.
They removed their clothes, hung them on pegs on the wall, pulled their raincoats on.
The man who had been driving the blue Ford—after looking carefully into the darkness—went to the grease rack. There was a paper bag on one of the ramps. Earlier in the day he had placed it there himself. He opened it and took out a handful of candles and a book of matches. Using a match to guide him, he placed the candles down the length of the ramps, lighting them as he went. When he was finished, the garage glowed with a soft amber light. Except for the rear of the building. It was dark there.
The man with the candles stopped suddenly, a match flame wavering between his fingertips. The hackles on the back of his neck stood up. He could hear movement from the dark part of the garage. He shook the match out quickly and joined the others. Together, the group unwrapped their packages and gripped the contents firmly in their hands—hammers, brake-over handles, crowbars, heavy wrenches. Then all of them stood looking toward the back of the garage, where something heavy and sluggish moved.
The sound of the garage clock—a huge thing with DRINK COCA-COLA emblazoned on its face—was like the ticking of a time bomb. It was one minute to midnight.
Beneath the clock, visible from time to time when the glow of the candles was whipped that way by the draft, was a calendar. It read OCTOBER and had a picture of a smiling boy wearing overalls, standing amidst a field of pumpkins. The 31st was circled in red.
Eyes drifted to the bundle between the ramps now. It had stopped squirming. The sound it was making was not quite a moan. The man from the van nodded at one of the men, the one who had driven the Chrysler. The Chrysler man went to the bundle and worked the ropes loose, folded back the burlap. A frightened black youth, bound by leather straps and gagged with a sock and a bandana, looked up at him wide-eyed. The man from the Chrysler avoided looking back. The youth started squirming, grunting, and thrashing. Blood beaded around his wrists where the leather was tied, boiled out from around the loop fastened to his neck; when he kicked, it boiled faster because the strand had been drawn around his neck, behind his back and tied off at his ankles.
There came a sound from the rear of the garage again, louder than before. It was followed by a sudden sigh that might have been the wind working its way between the rafters.
The van driver stepped forward, spoke loudly to the back of the garage. "We got something for you, hear me? Just like always we're doing our part. You do yours. I guess that's all I got to say. Things will be the same come next October. In your name, I reckon."
For a moment—just a moment—there was a glimmer of a shape when the candles caught a draft and wafted their bright heads in that direction. The man from the van stepped back quickly. "In your name," he repeated. He turned to the men. "Like always, now. Don't get the head until the very end. Make it last."
The faces of the men took on an expression of grimn
ess, as if they were all playing a part in a theatric production and had been told to look that way. They hoisted their tools and moved toward the youth.
What they did took a long time.
When they finished, the thing that had been the young black man looked like a gigantic hunk of raw liver that had been chewed up and spat out. The raincoats of the men were covered in a spray of blood and brains. They were panting.
"Okay," said the man from the van.
They took off their raincoats, tossed them in a metal bin near the grease rack, wiped the blood from their hands, faces, ankles and feet with shop rags, tossed those in the bin and put on their clothes.
The van driver yelled to the back of the garage. "All yours. Keep the years good, huh?"
They went out of there and the man from the Ford locked the garage door. Tomorrow he would come to work as always. There would be no corpse to worry about, and a quick dose of gasoline and a match would take care of the contents in the bin. Rain ran down his back and made him shiver.
Each of the men went out to their cars without speaking. Tonight they would all go home to their young, attractive wives and tomorrow they would all go to their prosperous businesses and they would not think of this night again. Until next October.
They drove away. Lightning flashed. The wind howled. The rain beat the garage like a cat-o'-nine-tails. And inside there were loud sucking sounds punctuated by grunts of joy.
—Nate Southard
Nate Southard's books include Lights Out, Scavengers, Red Sky, Just Like Hell, Broken Skin, This Little Light of Mine, and He Stepped Through. His short fiction has appeared in such venues as Cemetery Dance, Black Static, Thuglit, and Supernatural Noir. A graduate of The University of Texas with a degree in Radio, Television, and Film, Nate lives in Austin, Texas with his cat. You can learn more at www.natesouthard.com
—Mouth
By Nate Southard
More.
The word was still a whisper, barely more than a breath, but Gary knew it would get louder. It always did. Once it got so loud he couldn't ignore it, he'd have to obey. He hoped to find a way to shut it out, but so far all his attempts had failed.
Gary sipped his coffee, wishing he had enough energy to run, and watched half a dozen residents of the Juniper Ridge apartment complex chase a squirrel. Each time they came close to grabbing the little bastard, he felt his entire body tense, the anxiety and excitement creating a terrible friction inside him. When the animal switched direction and scurried free of their grasp, the friction disappeared beneath crashing waters of disappointment. He wanted to join them, but his legs were too tired. Just climbing from his bed, making the coffee, and then plopping down in the camping chair that decorated his balcony had stolen what remained of his strength. In a few hours, maybe he could join the hunt, but he hoped the group would catch the squirrel by then.
He could go to a pet store, buy a rabbit. That would work well. One of the more astute portions of his brain told him that might be a bad idea, though. Already, a lot of the complex residents had hit the local pet shops, and while the shopkeepers might enjoy the sudden rise in profits, sooner or later they'd grow suspicious. Already, the local Humane Society had stopped adopting animals to the folks living in Juniper Ridge. Gary knew because he'd tried, swearing up and down that he wanted to give an abandoned boxer a good home. They'd fed him a spiel about the breed and weight restrictions at apartment complexes, but he knew the truth. They suspected something, and that something was The Mouth.
More.
After streaking in circles for a moment, the squirrel bolted up a nearby tree. Two members of the crowd giving chase were children: a girl of less than ten whose hair was matted with weeks of grease and grime, and a boy of about the same age wearing nothing but white briefs. The kids started up the tree at once, climbing like monkeys. Below them, the adults pointed and shouted, telling them where they saw, or thought they saw, the squirrel. Their clothes were soiled and tattered, their faces streaked with dirt. In the weeks since they'd discovered The Mouth, the entire Juniper Ridge complex had fallen into a state of almost perpetual filth. Hair became tangles that were almost dreadlocks. Clothes smelled bad enough to be sniffed out from around corners and behind doors. Just looking at the crowd huddled beneath the tree inspired Gary to lift his own T-shirt to his nose and give it a whiff. Pretty bad, but not horrible. If he felt like it, he'd change in a few days.
He wouldn't feel like it, though. It was only due to The Mouth's understanding and mercy that he'd been allowed to sleep, that he had a cup of coffee in his hand instead of a squirming, terrified cat or other animal. Maybe that meant The Mouth could be quenched. He suspected the truth was something more ominous, though. Could be The Mouth was simply toying with them, all of them nothing more than rats in a cage or ants in a plastic farm. Or maybe The Mouth knew they needed rest, that they'd break if it worked them too hard.
That final possibility bothered Gary the most. It meant The Mouth was smart and knew their limits. And that meant there was no end in sight.
These thoughts tumbling through his brain like jagged rocks, Gary sipped his coffee and watched.
More.
***
The squirrel bit Cali's hands four times before she finally grabbed hold of it and smashed its skull against the tree. For a hot instant, when her hands were burning and the blood was starting to seep from the bites there, she'd thought about throwing the stupid thing against the parking lot. If she'd done that, however, one of the grown-ups would have grabbed it. Then, they'd give it to The Mouth, and she didn't want that happening. She liked feeding The Mouth more than anything else in the whole world, and she wasn't about to let no grown-up do it just because they were bigger and a stupid squirrel had hurt her hands.
"Idiot," she whispered to the limp mass of fur and broken bones in her fist. Then, she smiled.
"Gimme it."
A tiny gasp filled her throat when she heard the boy's voice. She couldn't remember his name, wasn't even sure she'd ever learned it, but she didn't like what he'd said or the way he'd said it. Carefully, she leaned to one side so she could look down at him. He crouched on a branch just below her.
"Gimme," he said again. His face was blank, his eyes black and hard.
"No. I caught it."
"So?"
"So, I'm gonna take it."
For a second, the boy did nothing but look at her with those eyes. Then, his face scrunched up in a collection of angry creases, and one of his hands curled into a white-knuckled fist.
"I'm taking it. It's my turn."
"We don't take turns. It doesn't work that way."
"It does now. You can go next."
A trick! She knew it as soon as the boy said it. If she gave him the squirrel, there wouldn't be any next. He'd lie and change the rules, find some reason for it to still be his turn.
More.
"I know," she answered, starting to feel anxious.
"So gimme," the boy said.
"I wasn't talking to you. Go away!"
"Gimme it, and I will."
She stuck out her tongue. Yeah, it was a kid thing to do. She didn't care. "Find your own. This one's mine."
"It belongs to The Mouth."
"I know that." It came out as a shout, almost a scream. Something pushed at the back of her eyes, forcing water down her cheeks. Why wouldn't the boy leave her alone? She knew the squirrel belonged to The Mouth, but it was hers until she dropped it down the hole. "I know, I know, I know. But I get to give it, so go away!"
Somehow, the boy's face scrunched up even more, so that he barely looked like a boy at all. Instead, he looked like an old man or a troll, something ugly and gross. She was about to tell him so just to hurt his feelings, but then his face changed into a boy's again, a smiling boy. The smile creeped her out, but she wasn't sure why until he stood on top of the branch, reached up with one hand, and grabbed hold of her ankle with strong fingers.
"I'll pull," he said. "I'll pull you ri
ght out of the tree."
"No, you won't." Cali didn't like the way her voice had gone all soft and whispery. She sounded scared, and she guessed there was a good reason for that.
The boy nodded slowly. "I will. You could break your leg. Or your neck. If you break your neck, you die, and then one of the grown-ups will give you to The Mouth."
Her breath disappeared, and her entire body felt like she'd just been tossed into a cold swimming pool. Would they do that? No one had fed a person to The Mouth, and she figured no one ever would. There had to be some kind of rule against it. The Mouth liked birds and squirrels and mice and kittens and turtles and puppies and even grown up cats and dogs, but it had never wanted a person. But The Mouth had never asked for anything specific, just More.
The boy tugged on her ankle, and a short screech burst out of her. She started sobbing, diving forward to wrap her arms around the tree limb. In her tiny, iron fist, she felt the squirrel grow cooler and cooler. She thought of the sounds that would come when she gave it to The Mouth: the crunching and tearing and the wet noises that she couldn't quite define. Then, she thought of the sounds she would make in The Mouth. No way. She couldn't risk it. Sniffling and crying, something clucking hard in her throat, she reached down and handed the boy the squirrel.
Cali heard a giggle, followed by the heavy sound of the boy landing in the grass. The giggling became laughter that trailed away, and she knew the boy had gone, running toward apartment 414 and The Mouth.
Slowly, her sobs died down into quiet sniffles. Now, she'd have to start all over.
More.
"I know," she said through tears.
