Horror For Good - A Charitable Anthology

by Jack Ketchum

  She'd been right all along. He could never be like them.

  Tom raised the gun to his own head as the first wolf crashed through the window.

  —Ray Garton

  Ray Garton is the author of over 60 novels, novellas, short story collections and media tie-ins. His 1987 novel Live Girls was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award and has become a classic of the genre. In 2006, he received the Grand Master of Horror Award. His latest novel, Meds, a thriller about prescription drugs, is available as a trade paperback, for Kindle from Amazon, for Nook from Barnes and Noble and in several ebook formats at www.fictionwise.com. He lives in northern California with his wife Dawn. To keep up with new releases, read interviews and reviews, participate in contests and interact on the message board, please visit the official Ray Garton website at www.raygartononline.com

  —Reception

  By Ray Garton

  Frank sat on the couch watching television. A commercial was on. He jotted something down in a spiral-bound notebook in his lap, writing quickly.

  Seven-year-old Kami perched on the cushion beside him and said, "What are you writing, Daddy?"

  "Just some stuff," he said distractedly. "Why don't you go play, sweetheart."

  "Can I have cookies and milk?" she said.

  Frank reluctantly put the notebook and pen on the rolled arm of the couch. He got up and hurried to the kitchen. He quickly found a package of Chips Ahoy cookies in the cupboard, put four on a paper plate, poured some milk in a glass. He put the cookies and milk on the dining room table.

  "There you go," he said.

  "Thank you, Daddy."

  Frank went back into the living room. His mouth dropped open when he saw the silent blue screen on the television. He grabbed the remote from the end table and flipped through the channels. They were all an empty blue screen. Cable was out.

  He took his iPhone from his pocket and called the cable company.

  "Yes, I'm calling because my cable is out."

  The woman on the line asked for his address and he gave it to her.

  "We're working on it, sir," she said.

  "Do you have any idea how long it'll be?"

  "All I can tell you is that we're working on it."

  He hung up and paced for a while. Then he went to the window and looked out at the front yard, at his Dodge Ram parked at the curb.

  Frank didn't park in the driveway anymore. He hadn't since the accident. It hadn't happened in the Ram, but that didn't matter. It had happened in the driveway. Almost three years had passed, but it felt like yesterday. When he closed his eyes, he could feel the Chevy pick-up's left rear tire bump over something as he backed out of the garage. He heard Kami's scream. He'd stopped the pick-up and gotten out. He'd seen Kami standing nearby with both of her little hands over her mouth. He'd seen the lower half of Frank Jr.'s body sticking out from beneath the pick-up. Frank Jr.—they'd called him Franky—had been nowhere in sight when Frank had started the engine and backed up. When he thought back on it now, he imagined he'd heard Franky's chest being crushed beneath the tire, his ribs breaking, although he hadn't at the time. Franky had been just a few weeks shy of his eighth birthday.

  Frank had sold the pick-up and gotten a good deal on the used Ram. But he never pulled into the driveway anymore. Because then he would have to back out, and he could never do that again.

  He went over to the television, hands on his hips, elbows jutting at his sides. The reception had not returned.

  Frank tucked his lower lip between his teeth and chewed on it. He wondered what he was missing.

  He needed something to do, a distraction. He decided to do some housework. Then he would cook dinner for Grace. But he left the television on even though the screen remained blue. He wanted to know as soon as the reception was restored.

  ***

  Grace came home to the smell of garlic. The table in the small dining area was set.

  "Hi, Mommy," Kami said as she hugged Grace.

  "Hi, sweetie. What smells good?"

  "Daddy cooked dinner."

  Frank came out of the kitchen. "Fireman's stew, a salad, and garlic bread," he said.

  Grace smiled and said, "Well, aren't you good to me."

  "Don't be silly," he said. "You're the one who works. I should do this every night."

  She embraced him and they kissed. "How are you?"

  "Fine," he said with a smile.

  She saw the blank blue screen on the television. "What's wrong with the TV?"

  "Oh. Cable's out." He went over to the end table, picked up the remote, and turned off the television. "Dinner's ready," he said.

  Grace went to the bedroom and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt.

  Over dinner, she was pleased to see Frank smile as they talked. He even laughed a few times. He was doing so much better. He'd gone into therapy immediately after the accident. He'd seen Dr. Stack, a family therapist, twice a week for a while before backing off to once a week. Grace had seen Dr. Stack for a time, too. She'd been so angry at Frank at first and she had to learn to let go of that, had to see things from Frank's point of view, feel his pain. The first year without Franky had been tough on both of them. Even Kami had seen Dr. Stack several times.

  A couple of weeks ago, Frank had said he didn't think he needed the sessions anymore and had stopped. Grace had been uncertain about that at first, but he was so obviously doing better that she thought it was probably all right for him to at least take a break.

  Frank had been a newspaper reporter at the Redding Record-Searchlight. He'd been in line for a promotion to associate editor when the accident happened. He'd quit work with the assurance that his job would be waiting for him when he was ready to come back, but the promotion went to someone else. Grace had gotten a job at a small advertising firm to make ends meet.

  He'd been so silent and morose at first. For a year, his facial expression had not changed once. Now, he was so much more like his old self. The difference was staggering.

  "Honey," she said as they ate, "you seem to be doing so well. Have you considered going back to work?"

  He nodded. "Yes, I've thought about it. I think I may be ready to do that very soon. What about you? Ready to quit?"

  "No. As a matter of fact, I thought maybe I'd keep working. We could have Mom take care of Kami in the afternoons when she gets home from school. It would be nice to have two incomes, don't you think?"

  "You like it that much?"

  "I love it. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed working. When we lived in Vacaville it was such a hassle. You know, driving into San Francisco every day, the awful traffic. But I love the work, I love advertising. And here in Redding, the traffic's no big deal at all. I'm really enjoying my job."

  He smiled. "That's great, honey. I'm glad."

  After dinner, they washed dishes together, then went into the living room and watched television—the cable was working again. He had a notebook in his lap. During the commercials, he scribbled in it.

  "What are you doing?" she said.

  He shrugged. "A little writing."

  "Really?" She smiled. "You miss it, don't you?"

  "Yeah, I guess I do."

  "Can I see?"

  "Oh, no. It's nothing. Just...messing around."

  That night in bed, they made love. It was better than it had been in a long time. Since before the accident. Grace fell asleep, content in the crook of his arm.

  ***

  Grace woke to find herself alone in bed and looked at the digital clock on her nightstand: 3:11. She heard something, sat up and listened. The television was on in the living room with the volume low. She got up and put on her robe.

  Frank was on the sofa writing frantically in the notebook. He wore a T-shirt and boxer shorts. The lamp on the end table provided the only light besides the glow from the television. She walked into the living room, but he did not notice her.

  "Honey," she said.

  He was so startled, his entire body jolted and the notebook
dropped to the floor. He bent down and picked it up, kept writing. When he was finished, he looked up and smiled at her. It was a big smile. Too big. A sheen of perspiration gleamed on his forehead and upper lip.

  "What are you doing up?" she said as she approached him and rubbed one eye with a knuckle.

  "Oh. Um. I-yuh, I couldn't sleep."

  "What're you—"

  He looked at the television. "Shh!" He leaned forward and watched a commercial. He started writing again.

  She sat down beside him.

  Frank stiffened, scooted away from her a bit. "Um, why don't you go back to bed, hon. I'll be in later."

  "What are you writing?"

  "It's nothing. I'm just—"

  She reached over to take the notebook, but he jerked it away from her.

  Grace frowned. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong."

  "Why won't you let me see what you're writing?"

  Another commercial came on and Frank focused his attention on it. He put the notebook in his lap and started writing again.

  "What are you writing?" she said.

  "Look, I'm kind of busy here. Why don't you go back to bed?"

  "You're sweating, Frank. What's wrong?"

  "Go to bed," he snapped.

  She flinched. "I'm not going to bed until you tell me what's wrong with you. Frank, you've been doing so well. I don't understand, what are you doing up at this hour, sweating like you've been on a run?"

  "You wouldn't understand."

  "Try me."

  He focused his attention on another commercial, wrote in the notebook again.

  Grace stood and folded her arms tightly across her breasts. "Are you going to talk to me?"

  An old black-and-white movie came on and Frank sat back on the sofa wearily, sighed. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  Grace went to the television, bent down, and punched the power button. The picture blinked out.

  Frank sat forward again and said, "No! Turn it back on!" He looked around until he found the remote on the end table, pointed it and turned the television back on.

  As he was doing that, Grace went to him and took the notebook from his lap. On the page were written lines in quotes, and within each line, certain words had been circled.

  "What is this?" she said.

  He stood and snatched the notebook away from her. "I said you wouldn't understand." He sat down on the couch again and watched the old movie.

  Grace took a deep breath, sat down beside him, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Frank, you...you're scaring me."

  "There's nothing to be scared of. Everything's fine."

  "Something's wrong."

  "Nothing's wrong, everything's fine now. He's telling me everything's fine."

  "What? Who's telling you everything's fine?"

  The gray light from the television sparkled in the unspilled tears in his eyes. He turned to her and smiled as one of the tears fell.

  "Franky."

  A cold feeling spread in Grace's chest. "What?"

  "He's been telling me that everything's okay. That he doesn't hate me for what I did. That he knows it was an accident."

  "When...how has he told you this?"

  "I noticed a pattern. In the commercials. About six weeks ago. At first, it was only in the mornings. Then it started in the afternoons, too. Now it's all the time. Certain words in certain phrases. I was watching TV one day, and it just...it just became obvious to me. It clicked. I started writing them down, and I've been getting all his messages."

  The cold feeling spread to her stomach.

  "He's telling me it's okay, that he doesn't hate me for what I did. That he knows it was an accident. It's in the commercials. It's all in the commercials."

  She squeezed his shoulder and said, "Honey, did you...did you tell Dr. Stack about this?"

  "No. That's why I stopped seeing Dr. Stack. Now that Franky is talking to me, I don't need Dr. Stack anymore. Franky's talking to me, and everything's okay. Everything's fine."

  The cold spread through Grace's entire body and she shivered.

  Frank smiled and placed a hand to her cheek. "Our boy is talking to me now, and everything's just fine."

  —Ian Harding

  Ian Harding is a U.K.-based fantasy and horror writer. His short fiction has appeared in Fear Magazine, in the Maynard and Simms anthology Darkness Rising, and in All Hallows, edited by Barbara Roden. Next year sees the publication of the first installment in a brand new trilogy for young adults about a virus outbreak epic entitled DOGZ.

  —The Long Hunt

  By Ian Harding

  McNichols caught up with the boy outside the bus depot in Los Alamos, New Mexico. It had been three hard months since their last encounter.

  For a fortnight the August sun had flung hellish heat from white skies, and McNichols was sheltering under the awning of LaundroCity on Dowd Street, sipping a Coke and keeping an eye on the depot steps opposite.

  The boy had gone in and hadn't come out.

  Earlier he'd glimpsed the scarlet sneakers, the lime-green backpack...and his heart had lurched into a hard thump as recognition lit his brain. He hadn't moved—had hardly breathed—as he watched the small figure slalom through the thin crowds, quick and sharp as a rat, then bound up the depot's granite steps and disappear inside.

  That had been 20 minutes ago.

  McNichols finished his soda, binned the can, and stepped out. The heat poured over his scalp like pan-warmed syrup. Across the street, the yellow depot sign hung over the concrete pillars of the shady entranceway, and he felt his nerves knot.

  He crossed the street thinking about the butchery of three months ago. That had been in Hook, Kansas...or had it been Sheeton? No, Hook. Sheeton had been the pedigree dog breeding farm, kennel after kennel of drained trophy-winners. The boy drank dog blood when he couldn't get anything more refined.

  Hook had been the Richards family, up from the wheat and dust of Luxton County for a fortnight of boating on the Winsor Lakes. McNichols had tracked the boy to the shore of Great Winsor just as the family's hired yacht was drifting back to the jetty, blown by the freshening wind.

  He'd stood on the boards over the water, braced for a fight. Maybe even the final fight. But the boy wasn't there. McNichols had frowned into the lake, trying to see past the waves lapping up, the sun-glare. Maybe the boy was still down there, sharking through the shadows and weed-fronds, the Richards' blood skimming off his small hands in pink clouds. But he saw nothing.

  The yacht knocked against the wooden pilings by his feet.

  The family was arranged in the bottom of the boat with their backs against the gunwales, legs stretched out, ankles together. Mum and Dad and the two kids. The bottom of the boat was dark with blood. Their heads had been taken and swapped around. Mr. and Mrs. Richards stared from the shoulders of their children. But the sight McNichols couldn't endure was the faces of the twins—girls—on the adult bodies. No pain in those blue eyes. No fear. Just puzzled sadness.

  He'd turned and gone back to his stolen Cherokee. He wasn't weeping. He didn't weep...hadn't since the day his son was taken from him. Instead, he raged. Like a furnace beneath his breastbone as he drove away.

  Now he stood at the foot of the depot steps and the entrance gaped like a lair. He felt old. The years weighed in him. His teeth were bad and needed work. His back ached and rankled after only a few hours of walking now. His hips gritted and needled, especially in damp weather. He was prone to migraines last thing at night that sometimes got so cripplingly bad that he ground his teeth and wished it would all end. He felt slow and badly prepared. He couldn't stalk at speed the way he used to, and hurrying was out of the question. The long hunt had turned him into a relic of himself.

  He was a joke. An old joke.

  ***

  The boy wasn't coming out. So what was he doing in there?

  McNichols went in. The depot was a twilight cave, the air diesel-choked and humming with engines. He
walked the passenger concourse past a Starbucks, a magazine stall, tourist information, rest rooms. Buses were pulling into or backing out of a fishbone pattern of parking bays, reversing alarms beeping.

  He could feel the boy was close—somewhere just beyond the press of the immediate crowd. An electric, lurking feeling like an approaching thunderhead. He watched the passengers come and go. Their ignorance filled him with low dread—familiar as the feel of his crumbly teeth to his tongue.

  He went forward through fumes and caught sight of a man turning away from a burger stall, a quarter-pounder in one fist, a coffee in the other. Good trainers. Good haircut. McNichols shouldered into him automatically.

  The man staggered back a step. The coffee didn't spill. The burger didn't fall. McNichols gave the man a look of abject apology.

  "God, man, I'm sorry. Real sorry—"

  There was a moment in which the man considered him. McNichols knew it could go either way—run smooth or turn raucous.

  It ran smooth. Due, in McNichols's opinion, to his age. Some folk simply could not be shitty to the old, like they were born with an inhibitor.

  "S'okay, fella," the man said. "No harm done."

  McNichols gave a civil nod and peeled away towards a restroom with the man's wallet up his coat sleeve. He felt fossilised by the years, but his pick-pocketing skills hadn't rusted.

  He locked himself in a stall, broke open the wallet, and pocketed 80 dollars in cash. Everything else went down the pan...but only after he'd lingered over the photo of the boy in backyard sunshine that Mr. Haircut kept in there.