Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors

by Ochse, Weston

  They talked me into staying until noon, with the promise that they’d load my car with fruit and water for the trip. They could tell my sanity was precariously perched and they spent every opportunity counseling me in an attempt at lightening my spiritual baggage.

  I sat and listened, letting it come in one ear and mentally shoving it out the other before any of the insane ideas had a chance to take root.

  The lunch bell gonged and we returned to the communal cave to eat and say our good buys.

  “Hello, Dan,” said Morty, standing by the blackened logs of the fire pit and holding the bell.

  My legs trembled and threatened to fail. The villagers seemed equally shocked. I found that a little strange, knowing their own propensity for returning from the dead.

  “You know, that really hurt,” he chuckled as he rubbed his chest. The blood had dried and the hole had disappeared, but the shirt still proved the event. “But what a rush!”

  “Morty,” I said, unable to keep the quaver out of my voice. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “I guess God has a special purpose for me too,” he said with a wink and a grin.

  At the mention of God, the villagers began to murmur among themselves. The Brother was gesticulating wildly towards Morty. Their voices became louder. I finally understood what they were saying.

  “The Christ. He is the Christ,” they were saying.

  Morty’s smile grew from ear to ear. He had never seemed so happy. “They think I am the Son of God, Dan.” He began laughing uncontrollably.

  I rushed over and tugged at Brother John’s arm. “This isn’t the Christ,” I said. “It’s only Morty. He came back just like the rest of you.”

  His eyes rested on mine. “Our holy book says ‘And one shall come among you with the sins of the world on his shoulders…although he is not of the chosen, He will die and rise again. He will provide for you and succor you in your times of need. He is the Christ, so love him.’”

  “Do ya hear that,” shouted Morty over the din. “I’m the Christ.” He raised his arms skyward. “I am the Christ.” The final word echoed throughout the cave along with his laughter.

  Brother John and the villagers knelt before him and bowed their heads in reverence. Morty took on an imperious demeanor and strode over to Brother John’s kneeling figure.

  He winked at me, placed his hand atop the Brother’s head and spoke in a commanding voice, “Arise, Brother John. Arise. I am the Christ. Love me.”

  Brother John rose and bade the kneeling multitude rise, also. They placed Morty atop their shoulders and headed towards the huts in a grand processional. A solitary voice floated up from within the group. The rest soon joined in and accompanied the procession with a hymn.

  I was completely and utterly amazed by the turn of events. All I could do was followed at a distance, mindful of the gun still tucked in my waistband. The procession passed the huts and entered a small clearing. In the center was an immense cross, sunk firmly into the ground. They stood Morty before it. He turned, smiled beatifically at his worshippers and jokingly placed his arms along the length of the cross which were immediately seized from behind. Four large men secured his wrists to the arms of the cross with lengths of rope. Two women wrapped another rope quickly around his feet, securing them to the shaft of the cross.

  Morty’s shouts of confusion were lost amidst the singing. A man in the rear of the group produced a curved, single-edged knife and passed it forward. The blade glittered wickedly in the sunlight. I began to edge backwards. A large wooden bowl was also making its way forward. Brother John soon held the items in either hand. He brought his arms up. The singing stopped and the congregation knelt in the wildflowers of the field.

  Brother John turned and kissed Morty passionately upon the lips. Then, in a quick sure movement, he drew the blade across Morty’s neck. Morty tried to cry out, but couldn’t get enough air for a scream. The blood gushed forth in a bubbly rush. Before any could hit the ground, Brother John deftly moved the bowl into position and the torrent quickly filled it.

  He held the bowl high. “This is the blood of Christ. Blood he sheds to wash away our sins.”

  Before I turned and left, I saw the agonized look in Morty’s eyes. He had become their permanent fountain of redemption. He knew he wouldn’t die. And I am sure he wished he could.

  Peaches

  by David Whitman

  The old man ruffled his leathery hands through the child’s blonde hair. “You know something, Davy,” he said. “You’re the only one who has ever done good for me. The only one that I have faith in.”

  He looked up at the peach tree, enjoying the way the wind blew into his wrinkled face. The newly ripened fruit waved invitingly in the warm breeze.

  The old man and his grandson sat on the hill under the tree, the sweet scents moving enticingly through the air. Flowers dotted the landscape around them, the colors swaying back and forth like a beautiful dream.

  The old man watched patiently as the rest of his family ambled slowly up the hill, his eyes narrowing.

  “I like you too, Grandpa Pete,” Davy said, looking up at the old man.

  Pete returned his adoring look and smiled, exposing his white dentures to the summer air. “I want you to remember that, Davy.” He turned back towards his family and there was an odd glint in his eye. “Your Grandpa is leaving soon. Going to join that woman, uh your grandmother, in the afterlife. I’m going to be saying some things to these buffoons that you see walking up the hill, things that aren’t going to be too pleasant. I thought it would be best if you heard it firsthand. I’d rather that you’d have your own memory of what’s going to go on here, rather than some biased second hand information from one of those clowns.” He said the last sentence with a smile as he waved at the group nearing the top of the flower-dotted hill.

  The first son to make it up was Steve. Pete actually had to fight to keep his smile glued to his face—a fight he won much to his amazement. He was getting much too impatient for such niceties. Steve was his oldest son, a piece of shit, the very definition of redneck. Steve hadn’t held a job longer than a month in his entire forty-five years. A man who would rather spend his father’s vast amount of wealth than to go out into the world and provide for himself. Steve took off his John Deere cap respectfully and held it to its side, but not before putting a dip of wintergreen chewing tobacco behind his bottom lip.

  Steve’s wife, Mary, followed behind. She was a woman who reminded Pete far too much of his long dead wife—a woman who felt the world owed her something for nothing.

  Pete’s second son, Samuel, was followed by his wife, Lia. The only good thing that those two have done, he thought, is bring such a perfect boy as Davy into the world. Other than that, they did nothing more than have sex, sleep, eat and shit. Might as well get a dog. At least a dog shits outside and has the decency to die after about fifteen years of freeloading. There are no bigger parasites in all of Georgia.

  “Daddy.” Both sons said their greeting simultaneously and Pete winced.

  Pete looked up at the peach tree, putting his hand over his eyes to block the sun and thought to himself just how much he and the old peach tree were alike. His whole freeloading family took fruit from that tree, with the exception of Davy. The boy, like Pete, had developed an aversion of peaches.

  The rest of the family took the peaches gluttonously, never giving anything back, not once offering to help take care of the tree. That’s my job, he said, chuckling to himself. I take care of the tree, and they eat its fruit. My family scavenges from me, never even leaving home to cut their own paths. They depend upon me totally. I take care of myself, increasing my fortune every year in real estate, and they eat from me. My money might as well have peaches on the front of the bill instead of the face of some old president. Like the tree, I wince every time one of my hard-earned fruits is taken. The fruits of my labor.

  Pete hid his thought well. “Everybody grab a peach and sit down,” he said, gesturing t
o the tree. “I have something to tell all of you.” He grinned and this time it was genuine.

  They all pulled a peach from the tree and sat down. Steve took three in his typically greedy fashion.

  They bit hungrily into the sweet, luscious peaches as they waited for Pete to speak. Steve did not even bother to wipe the juice that ran messily down his chin. Lia took short baby bites, chewing carefully to get maximum enjoyment.

  “I’m glad to see everyone here,” Pete said, turning his gaze at each of them as he spoke. “The first thing that I want to tell you is that I’m dying.” He saw that they tried to hide their elation, but failed miserably. They actually seemed to drool like hungry dogs, the peach juice on Steve’s chin emphasizing the metaphor colorfully.

  “Oh Pete, I’m so sorry,” Mary said sorrowfully, although to Pete it sounded like, “Good-Goddamn, Pete, that’s fantastic!”

  Pete finally put aside the mask of the friendly old man he had worn for years, letting it slide from his face with smooth and satisfying precision. “Please. Spare me your fake sympathy. You’re the most apathetic woman that I’ve ever met. You couldn’t empathize with a dying child, you cold bitch.”

  “Dad!” Steve shouted in shock. “Don’t listen to him, Mary. He must be going senile.”

  “Senile!” Pete shot back, sending them all into frozen positions of amazement, each of them riveted to his words. “Boy, my mind is sharper than that knife you used to whittle with when you were Davy’s age. Although you did most of your whittlin’ without the knife, I should add, judging by the amount of times I caught you in the barn with your pants down to your ankles!”

  “Dad!”

  “Don’t Dad me, boy! Let me finish! I got some things to say and I want you to hear me out! The least you can do for me, after all I’ve done, is shut your hole and listen!” He glared at them one by one, daring them to open their mouths. “I have a confession to make. Many years ago your mother didn’t run off on me. She didn’t just disappear. I killed her. I killed the cheating bitch. I found her with Ned Roberts and I shot the both of them. Your mother took a bullet in the face, dead instantly. For the first time in her life, she didn’t get the last word in.”

  With a true sense of the moment, Pete watched their reactions, locking eyes with each of them as they sat in stunned silence. The summer breeze rustling through the peach tree was the only sound. Davy looked frightened, his eyes wide on his chubby face, his mouth open in an ‘o’ of amazement.

  No one moved. The kind old man that they had known their whole life was gone, disappearing in the smoke of murderous memories. The old man sitting before them, his back to the peach tree, was so unlike their father that he was almost alien.

  Pete continued his speech. “Now, the first thing that I want you to do is to thank your mother, for she provided your nutrients.”

  Samuel, the brighter of the two brothers, was the first to catch on. He was looking at his half eaten peach with horror and revulsion.

  Pete saw his enlightenment and smiled. “Yes, indeed. That woman made sure that you got all your vitamins in a way that’s pretty literal.” He knocked his wrinkled fist into the grass. “Ain’t that right, Marian?” he asked, looking down at the grave. “I shot them in my very own bed and then I dragged them up here and buried them under this here peach tree. And goddamn, if the peaches didn’t look livelier when they blossomed that year. Tastier too, said many. If you look really close within the fuzz of the peach, you can see the ghostly outline of your mama’s face, her mouth open in a silent scream. That’s entertaining stuff, I tell ya. Figures she would haunt me, the miserable bitch.”

  Steve studied the peach, his breathing firing out in nervous blasts. Pete could tell by the way that his son’s face looked that he saw the ghostly visage of his mother on the peach. Years ago, when Pete had first seen the image of his dead wife on the skin of the fruit, he had damn near panicked. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. Sometimes, he would watch her lips moving and he would just laugh with glee before pulling away the skin. One time, a peach was filled with a bloody, milky substance.

  “And you know what else?” Pete continued. “You know how I take a walk every night ten o’clock sharp?” He paused while they nodded like zombies, their faces whiter than the puffy clouds above their heads. “I walk up to this here tree and I piss on it every night. I piss right on the cheatin’ bitch’s grave. Why a few times I even buried a shit or two. Another neat little twist is if you stab the tree between the midnight hour, the hour your Mama died, she will moan a little. It’s kinda cute.”

  Steve stood up angrily and dropped his peaches. “You’re crazy, old man. Mom’s not really under this tree. She ran off because she couldn’t stand you.”

  Pete snickered. “I notice you stopped eating the peaches real quick for an unbeliever, Stevie.”

  “Dad, why are you doing this?” Samuel asked, pulling Davy away from his grandfather.

  “Because all of you are good for nothing. You came from a bad seed.” He pounded the dirt to emphasize his point. “You boys ain’t never done nothing for me. You take my money and give me nothing in return. I don’t even get a birthday card. Every year you give me the same Christmas present that all of you pitch in for. Goddamn English Leather cologne. I’d rather wear skunk piss. Don’t any of you notice that I don’t even wear the shit? I wouldn’t even put it on the dog.”

  “Well, it’s not like we go around smelling you, Dad,” Samuel said, trying to lighten up a situation that he felt his father had made up to make a point. “Now, this joke that you made up is funny. Ha Ha. We get your point. Now stop this nonsense. You’re scaring Davy.”

  Pete got up from the ground and clenched his fists, his face red with anger. “The boy should be scared with a low-life like you for a father.”

  “That’s it!” Lia screamed. “I’ve had enough! I’m not going to sit here and listen to the ramblings of a crazy old man!”

  Pete stopped her with a demonstrative gesture of his hand, a sharp hatchet-like chop. “Before everybody goes running off, I got one more thing left to say. I put all my money, my entire estate, in a trust fund that goes to Davy when he’s twenty-five years old. That will goes into effect today.” He looked at his sons. “As for you two, I left you with one thing, and if you want to get me back, you can start by kicking me off your property. This acre of land, your Mama, and the peach tree are yours. Do what you will with them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to leave you in peace. I seem to be trespassing on your property.”

  As Pete walked down the hill, enjoying the smell of the fragrant flowers, he was rewarded by his good-for-nothing sons for the first time in his long life. The sounds of their whining in his ears was like sweet music. And music, he thought, is good for the soul.

  Sweet Little Piggy

  by Weston Ochse

  “Stick men, stick men, my little stick men,” came the lispy singing from the shadowy corner of the living room.

  “She ain’t violent, is she?” asked the small woman, pointing toward the figure hunched on the carpet.

  “No, my dear. Sweet Little Piggy is as placid and nice as a cool spring day,” the old black woman said looking fondly on her granddaughter.

  “I don’t know... ” said the woman, waffling like they all did the first time.

  “Come over here and meet the nice lady, Sweet Little Piggy.”

  The hunched figure stopped its soft singing and froze.

  “Grandma says come here,” she repeated sternly.

  Sweet Little Piggy clambered up and shambled over in a side-to-side sway. She wore a floor-length smock. Once pink, it was now covered with paint smears and pastel marks, proof of her crayon artistry. Her hands and head were the only pieces of skin visible, pure whiteness against the mosaic of childish color. In her arms, she held a large wicker basket of broken crayons, gripped lovingly, like a trophy. The young woman drew back, a hand to her mouth as she saw the figure’s face. Paper-white skin was the canvas for a pu
g nose, two tiny triangular eyes containing tinier red orbs and a poorly corrected cleft lip. Tight red curls topped her head like a cherry on a whipped cream desert. The woman stepped back involuntarily, causing Sweet Little Piggy to snort several times.

  “Now, now. Don’t tease the nice lady. Say hello, my dear. This is Miss Rosie and her daughter, Jenny Mae.”

  Close now, the woman could see the child stood nearly five feet tall and weighed almost 200 pounds.

  Sweet Little Piggy stood smiling back at the woman, a look of childish pleasure on the deformed face. Rosie inhaled sharply as Piggy snorted again.

  “There you go. Now, go on back and play some more,” said Grandma Fletcher, apparently satisfied at the greeting. To the woman, “My granddaughter is an albino, so she doesn’t get out in the sun very much. In fact, if it wasn’t for me watchin’ these children, she wouldn’t have anyone to play with. She may look older, but my Sweet Little Piggy is about as smart as your sweet little daughter. Poor Piggy was shaken too much as a baby.”

  “But she’s so big,” said the woman, startling herself.

  “Listen, honey,” said the old woman changing the subject. “The Women’s Center sent you to me. They wouldn’t have done that if there’d been any real trouble at my place. Your daughter is gonna do fine here. Granted, this isn’t one of those franchise places with fresh paint and them learnin’ toys, but there’s a lot of love in these walls. Put your trust in Grandma Fletcher.”

  The old woman’s sad eyes embraced the younger in a clutch of warmth as Rosie once again studied the tenement’s main room. Faded yellow velvet wallpaper hung in tatters high above the level of inquisitive hands. Below, the wall had been stripped and scrubbed clean, revealing a smooth off-white surface. The furniture was old and worn with decades of use, but appeared sturdy enough for even Grandma Fletcher’s large frame. An oval carpet covered the greater part of the wooden floor. Once many colors, the fabric was now a washed-out gray. A pale yellow light came from the far corner, making shadows jump around the edges of its weak nimbus. The overhead light was dark, as were the windows, spray-painted black and draped with dark blue curtains. The only other light was a small table lamp with long maroon tassels dangling from a small brown shade sitting by the end of the couch.