by Various
***
All day people were arriving. Hundreds of them. Perhaps there were even thousands now, he thought as he looked down from his window at the throng of bodies in the back field. Like ants, he thought. Little ants I could step on and crush under my feet.
Time for him to make an entrance.
Ruaridh walked silently through the people; they parted to let him pass. Some stared slack-jawed at him and others stifled sniggers behind hands. Others just out and out guffawed. Edinburgh in November was no place for a man in a dress. He wore a robe made from sacking material - one that would have been extremely uncomfortable to wear and tied at the waist with a rough rope belt. His shoulder-length white wavy hair made him look every bit the biblical hero. He made his way to the front of the crowd, stepped up onto the small platform and raised his hands, Moses-style.
'Children, today marks the beginning of a new dawn for the people of Scotland.'
People nudged their neighbors and winked, charmed by he eccentric old fool in the fancy dress costume in front of them.
'Today is a day you will never forget. The entire population of Scotland and every Scot world-wide will never forget. Today, the Feast of St. Andrew, will now be celebrated in the manner it deserves. I demand it.'
The crowd roared with laughter, shoulders heaving with mirth, eyes watering, sides being held as the silly old fool began to fumble with strings attached to a row of tarpaulins behind him.
The tarpaulins fell.
The crowd was suddenly silent.
A lone voice began to laugh, a hysterical laugh, a laugh that said the owner wanted to believe this was a joke, a prank, but the sound of the laughter, the mania in its tones belied that.
It wasn't a joke.
It wasn't faked.
It was real.
The crowd began to run in all directions like cornered rats, fleeing, stumbling, falling, trampling other people in their wake.
But some people did not move.
They just stood there.
Staring.
They watched as the life flowed from the wounds of the fifty crucified Scots, people chosen at random. All ages and all walks of life were represented by the victims Ruaridh selected to represent his beloved St. Andrew.
Some in the crowd even moved closer to inspect the crucifixions, raised tentative hands to touch fingertips to the blood that flowed from the ripped hands and feet, touched the warm flesh wounds just to make sure that they were real.
***
Ruaridh never stood trial. Instead he was found incompetent and institutionalized. But Ruaridh wasn't insane - that was an insult to him. What he did, he did for the love of St. Andrew the Apostle, did for the love of his country and the love of his countrymen - past, present and future.
***
St. Andrew's Day would never be forgotten in Scotland ever again. Not that it would be celebrated in the way Ruaridh desired, but it would never be forgotten, at least.
***
Almost twelve months on: a young man stands in the field where he stood nearly one year ago. It's as if they still hang here in this field; he can still hear the death-rattle in the throats of the crucified, still feel the pattering of blood on his face as he looks up at a girl who stares down, her eyes pleading, immanent death and injustice in her stare. He can still smell the blood in the air, see the rivers that flowed from palms and feet, still taste that sharp copper explosion on the back of his tongue.
He stands there still, playing the scene over and over, a scene that never erases, never fades - like the dreams that Ruaridh has - pristine memories.
The man in the field realizes that people have short memories and begins to make plans for St. Andrew's Day.
ALEX SEVERIN
Alex Severin is a writer, editor and hell-bound blasphemer, apparently.
She has been widely published on the web on such prestigious sites as
Fangoria, Horrorfind, The Dream People, Short, Scary Tales, Suspect Thoughts, Ophelia's Muse, House of Pain and Death Grip to name but a few. In print she appears in Peep Show Magazine 1 & 2.
Alex is the editor and webmistress of the exquisite BDSM, Fetish & Erotic Horror e-zine, Shadow of the Marquis (www.shadowofthemarquis.com), and owner and webmistress of custom written erotica website Personal Erotica (www.personalerotica.co.uk).
Alex is the co-author of BROKEN - Twisted, Gore-soaked Tales of Sex, Death & Pain with Hertzan Chimera & Wrath James White, released in 2002 by Medium Rare Books (www.mediumrarehorror.com) and BoyFistGirlSuck, a deviant collection of horror/fetish-erotica co-written with Hertzan Chimera and due for release in February 2003 from Massacre Publications (www.massacrepublications.co.uk).
Alex Severin is married to horror author and publisher Kailleaugh Andersson.
Miscellaneous HOLIDAY HORROR TALES
The holiday celebrations in the world are numerous and varied-129-139 days in Japan and Korea, 145 in France, and 172 in Sri Lanka. While some of these are certainly religious events and others commemorate important national history, many are simply leisure days. Bearing that in mind, travel remains one of the most popular holiday activities. The experts provide us with some cheerful advice on the matter:
-luxury cruise liners are often registered in other countries, thus they are not under any obligation to report rape, theft, battery, or any other crimes to authorities in your nation.
-don't look lost or vulnerable.
-always check all areas of your quarters upon returning; cleaning crews often leave doors hanging open as they work and unscrupulous sorts might sneak in. Examine closets, showers, under beds, etc.
-keep all money and valuables locked in the central vault. The safes provided in your quarters won't be covered by insurance.
-insure that somebody you trust is watching your home while you are away.
As many of us know certain holidays provide an excellent chance to indulge in excessive amounts of alcohol, frequently resulting in poor behavior and vehicular deaths. Consumer-oriented holidays sometimes result in deaths and injuries as masses of parents crush each other in an attempt to snag the few "must have" gifts for children. Throughout the ages human sacrifice has been a feature of rituals and celebrations; the Aztecs had 20,000 human sacrifices per year, while unsubstantiated reports suggest sacrifices in the United States of America are in the tens of thousands.
Despite these somewhat disturbing occurrences we continue to set aside time for the mysterious, the unearthly, the relaxing, in days or even weeks at a time. More often than not the result is somewhat pleasant and provides us with a bit of gossip for the coworkers.
-John Edward Lawson
The Boy Who Fell To Earth
By Hertzan Chimera
We got this cheap old mobile home that takes us everywhere. All over the province. And sometimes out into the continent. A short ferry trip across a colourless sea twinkling with reflection. Every year since I was a drooling baby sporting a stinking puke bib. It has been the same. School breaks up and we already have the mobile home packed and ready to go. Then it's off on the open Summer highway. Me, momma, pop and Jessica (that's my kid sister, she's all right).
I guess this is what we do in life. Tell stories to hide the truth about ourselves. I admit now, as a younger boy, I would fib and tease my kid sister until she cried like a sniveling rat to momma. I would steal from momma's purse every now and then and she never thought to ask me. I had heard that most young children do these things. It did seem a natural thing to do. Not a criminal thing. Look at squirrels storing nuts for later. I was sort of upset that she never accused me of doing wrong. I was her son, maybe she knew it was me. Maybe she was ashamed of me. Wanted me to kill myself by throwing myself into the street where the big vans rumbled by hour after hour all day long.
I was always aware that there were things you shouldn't do.
We had something called a Constitution in our family. Some times, someone would get the Sermon. You should abide by the Constitution, they woul
d reprimand us. I am not sure how it went, the exact wording of the Constitution. I always closed my ears off at the right time. I knew these things were out there, these things you shouldn't do. Like the face behind every closed door, screaming, dragging its nails down the splintering wood. I would be pestered by faces, always screaming faces as I tried to slowly dribble off into sleep. These faces were made of a strange clay. Cold to the touch. There was a slap every time one of them crashed down onto my face from on high as I tried desperately to fall asleep in the mobile home.
But what can a young boy do? It was supposed to be a holiday. Put it this way. I can pass for a local if I put my mind to it. Always a trick I could eventually pull. You know the form. You hear an accent. You take the micky out of it. And then you can't stop. You pick up the subtle nuances of the timings, the emphasis, the fake endings and trapdoors of speech. Oh, sorry, got beyond myself there. It is easy to slip into the culture of the place you are visiting.
The thing that got me a reputation, you could say.... Her name was Emma. A dull name for a dull looking girl. But she could scream like no vision I have ever had. We met on the first day of our arrival at the seaside campsite. She and I collected dead animals from the side of the road. And gave them a proper burial. I thought that was really great. That we should share something so private like this. She had this special 'train spade', as she called it. It was a flat wide Stoker spade her dad had given her when they closed the local steam train network. There was always something special to find when Emma had her 'train spade'.
On the seventh day, we found the body of a man. In the woods. He was a big fat bloated man with funny coloured skin like old plastic bags. He had no hair on his head and his fingernails were black and broken. We had the 'train spade' but there was no way he would fit on that, as big and flat as it was. Emma's eyes glistened when she first saw the hairy forearm leading to the hairy upper arm. Big muscles. Then the shoulder. Then we removed more and more of the twigs and leaves and dirt that was covering the body of the man. He was totally naked apart from a thin leather strap that was tied too tightly round his throat. A stick at the back had been twisted and twisted and twisted. In my head, I could taste the sap of the leather as it squeezed out of the tightening leather. I could hear all the sounds of his life leaving him in grasping clutching hi-resolution detail. Emma saw none of these things I am sure.
Emma thought this would be a perfect find to give a proper burial. She said that even though it wasn't 'technically' road kill, we had a duty. Before the digging began, Emma got intrigued by that which she had only seen in fleeting glimpses on her daddy's skinny body pre- and post-shower, Emma used the 'train spade' to move the man's shrunken circumcised willy from side to side. She was giggling at her jiggling like it was lots of fun. She kept saying that it was like a dead slug. She handed me the 'train spade' and knelt down beside the man. He was certainly not breathing, this dead person. This corpse.
Emma brushed her shiny blonde hair to one side and fixed it back with her hair grip. Then she tasted the slug. Her little pink tongue came out of her mouth and the triangular tip of it touched the hole at the end of the man's shrunken circumcised willy.
I felt the whole world sublimate into freckles of magnesium powder which themselves ignited like starburst. The whole scene became a burning special effect. No sound. No smell. All picture. Viewed from far away, I could see Emma over the dirty dead man's naked body. There was a creature beside them. It was a terrible looking creature that throbbed like a stammering Mongoloid. As Emma chortled over the man, saying how funny it tasted, her mouth opening to take it all in, the creature stood beside them slowly lifted the 'train spade' above its bent and distorted head, you could see the little white curly hairs on its toad head shining in the light beams that streamed through the trees. And I started to scream.
The creature hammered Emma's skull again and again with the 'train spade'. Until all her brains had fallen out all over the fat belly of the surrogate road kill. There was so much blood, pouring out for eternity. I dropped the 'train spade'. I will take responsibility for that much. I dropped the 'train spade' and the crows fluttered away, filling the sky with blackness. I knelt down beside the body of Emma and her lips were still moving. I could not believe a girl with her skull smashed open and her brains dished out like that would still have something to say. I put my ear next to her still-moving lips and listened to her whispered voice sing me this song.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are. Up above the clouds so high. Like a diamond in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle, little star ...."
How I wonder what you are. She was calling back to me from the brink of her mortality. That special knife-edge where all truth is reflected. She had unveiled me as the monster. But her tale would go no further. Her secret was mine to hold forever. Just like the other girls and boys who had found themselves at the mercy of the monster. He cannot be stopped. He is not even from this world. But you have already guessed that, right? And that was what momma always told me - make sure the secrets stay secret.
I am a good boy.
Four days later on the news, just as we were packing up to move on to the next campsite across the Province, there she was - Emma. On TV in her school uniform and with such a pretty smile. So different from the sheared foreheaded scream I remember her having. That look in her popped eyes. She wasn't blaming me. It was the monster's fault anyway. She understood that and it was all she could do to hold back her tears. She knew of the burden I have carried since birth on this strange planet. We shared that secret and no-one would ever know what sort of a monster I was.
It didn't take them too long to find the dreadful scene. I think someone stumbled across it. That always happens when you are walking the dog. Dogs love finding dead bodies like that. And these two presented a perfect tableaux of desperate slaughter to anyone in the know. I have that perpetual crime scene over and over again as masturbatory fantasy in the time in between holidays. The crime scene the monster and I had caused. The poetry in our perversion. It is no use trying to get off on anyone else's slip of sanity. The music is all wrong, jangly wind chimes when it should be smooth rich vanilla ice cream.
We moved on to another campsite and no-one would ever know. That's just the way things are. For tea that night we had roast turkey and potatoes and carrots. But I didn't want a mouthful of it. I kept seeing Emma's soft pink mouth around the slug. I had throat choking visions of her eating a jarful of those slugs, gulping them down and gagging on the slime. It wasn't right. Suddenly I found myself awake early in the morning and many a time I would watch the sun rise. For the next two weeks it was like this. Bed by nine. Lying awake in dreamless half-sleep. The moon crawling across my eye like a razor slug.
That's when I had the greatest idea of my life. To kill my kid sister. We had always got on, there weren't many arguments between us. In fact our friendliness could be considered rather unhealthy, if you think about it. But that is how secrets work. Never let on. Never show the eye of the beast until you need to. It so seemed like the right thing to do. Like my body was calling out to me chemically, kill your kid sister, kill your kid sister. This time it wasn't the monster who did it. It was me. I did it. Momma and pop were asleep in the other part of the mobile home.
I took a pillow and put it over Jessica's face. I lay on top of her and I could feel my pubic bone rubbing against hers. Jessica woke up only when she had no more breath stored. She gasped and gagged and kicked. Then she tried to buck me off and I thought I would be discovered in the flagrante delicto of sister slaughter. I lifted the pillow a bit and punched her in the face. She merely snarled at me with a feral glimmer of hatred so I put the pillow back and tried with all my might to snuff out her angry life.
Momma and pop were woken up by their own cultivated monsters. They came rushing in like a river of blood and stood there at the foot of the bed watching me as I struggled with the little tyke under me. I got bitten scratched and torn apart by what my sister was d
estined to become. I never realized she had such power in her. An earthquake went off somewhere, Richter scale 7.9. And I felt like someone had opened my chest such was the force of the blast. The mobile home was shaking and outside everyone was running around with their heads cut off, fountains of gory shine stretching high into the rumbling sky.
"Who do you think will win, honey?" pop said to momma.
"How can I say?" said momma. "No one in my family thought I would win against my brother. Boys think they rule the world."
Momma elbowed her arranged husband in the ribs and he gave her a look. Oh, such a look. And how did I know this when I was supposed to be killing my kid sister? Well, I had lost the battle a long while ago. Indeed there was a heat in my chest. And a rib-toothed hole. That's what happens when a monster like hers tears out your heart and holds it up to your stunned face squashing all your life away like so much raspberry juice out of a sponge that you've just used to clean up some domestic accident.
I saw all this from a softly increasing distance. The victorious kid sister with her prize in her small white hand, the heart of the monster. I saw momma and pop hug each other in a warm gesture of forever togetherness. I saw in my last dying seconds exactly what my kid sister had been doing in her quiet moments in her room playing with her Barbie dolls. I witnessed the grotesque size of her monster. It was so well trained my little toad-form never stood a chance.
Lesson to learn: never underestimate the enemy. Next time, maybe.
HERTZAN CHIMERA
makes William Burroughs look like a social realist." Terror Tales review of the
