Horror Buffet : Six Servings of Tasty Terror

by Dane Hatchell

  Horror Buffet

  Dane Hatchell

  These stories are a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed PRESS

  Other Titles Available from the Author

  Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d'État

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

  Two Big Foot Tales

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Zombie’s Honor

  Table of Contents

  Do Unto Others

  New Shoes

  Need

  Prison Bitch

  How Do You Eat a Whole Human?

  The Corn Has Eyes

  The sun broke over the eastern horizon casting an orange glow on Reverend Flake’s small farm. The air was thick with moisture. Dew glistened on the grass and weeds grew in the crop fields. The nocturnal animals had bedded down for rest.

  The Reverend started his daily chores well before sunup, sitting on an old wooden stool squeezing milk from his two cows into a metal bucket. After the cows had been watered and fed, he moved over to the chicken shack for the ritual egg gathering before having breakfast with his wife and daughter.

  When the sun rose high enough for his tired old eyes to see, he hooked the yoke to his loyal mule and plow. With the snap of the bridle reigns the mule began his walk, turning the soil for the spring crops.

  Reverend Flake’s only son was serving in the army, fighting Hitler in Germany. Several members of his flock had pledged the day before to come by and give him a hand. Planting was a daunting task for one man to take on alone.

  Not one of the well intending had shown. He was disappointed, but understood. Their farms and families came first. In his heart, he felt God would provide. When the time was right, God always provided.

  The earth gave way under the heavy iron plow turning clumps of grass roots to the sky, sending worms and insects scurrying from the light of day. Sweat formed on his brow as the day heated, and stung his eyes as the salt and grim trickled from his forehead.

  As he paused a moment to dab his face with his handkerchief, his eyes focused on a man approaching from down the road. He had a long sack slung over his shoulder.

  The Reverend squinted his eyes and shielded the sun with his forearm. This man was not one of his parishioners. In fact, he did not recognize him at all.

  A tall, young man with broad shoulders greeted the Reverend with a cheerful smile. “Morin’, sir. My name’s, Pickings. James Pickens. They call me Jim.” He removed the straw hat from his head and held it to his chest.

  The two shook hands. The man’s biceps bulged through his worn flannel shirt.

  “Good to meet you, Jim. I’m, Reverend Flake. Reverend James Flake. I guess we got the same Christian name. Now, what brings you here, boy?”

  “Well, sir. I’m working my way down south. I hear they needs some help in them oil fields. I’m looking to go down there for some steady work,” Jim said, with a gleam in his bright blue eyes. “Sir, I’ll give you a day’s hard work if you can feed me and put me up for the night. You don’t have to pay me or nothing. I’ll be on my way first thing tomorrow. Once I get to town, I figure I can hitch a ride.”

  “Son, you don’t know it but you’re an answer to my prayers.” The Reverend slapped him on the arm. “You help me get my crop planted and I’ll make things right.”

  Jim walked past the Reverend and grabbed onto the plow. He put his bottom lip under his teeth and made a whistle that startled the mule from its rest, and sent it plodding forward again. The Reverend retrieved a bag of corn from the barn and started planting in the newly tilled soil.

  As the hours passed, the morning gave way to noon. Without much enticement, the Reverend convinced Jim it was time to rest a spell and break for lunch.

  Back at the farmhouse, the two left their dirt encased boots on the front porch, and met the others in the kitchen.

  “This here is my wife, Edna. That there is my daughter, Elisa,” the Reverend said.

  Both women gave their cordial hellos. Jim politely retuned the greeting. His eyes fixated on Elisa, not sparing more than a half second glance at Edna. He was so enchanted a shotgun fired by his head would have gone unnoticed.

  Elisa was dressed in a sheer white blouse that contoured to her ample bosoms. Her aging denim skirt hung well above her knees, exposing her long legs, firm calves, and perfect feet.

  The Reverend closed one eye and raised one brow. This boy was just like all the others, smitten by the sin of lust for his daughter.

  The three sat down to a lunch of ham and biscuits, with fig preserves on the side. They washed the meal down with fresh cold milk. Jim dominated the conversation, asking three questions for every one asked of him.

  Jim’s eyes darted around the room as he spoke. The Reverend found his shiftiness curious. He excused it for being nervous around Elisa. Eventually, Jim calmed down and relaxed.

  Unknown to them, Jim was looking for something in particular. Something that most people had in their kitchen. A jar. A special jar. A jar that contained cash money. Jim spotted it in a corner of a top shelf behind a ceramic rooster. The rooster had dried butter beans glued to it to look like feathers.

  There were other odd knick knacks made from vegetables in the kitchen and throughout the house. After lunch, Jim inquired about them.

  “Oh, that’s Elisa’s art. She uses vegetables from the garden. See that picture right there,” the Reverend pointed to a wall in the living room. “The cows, the pasture, the whole picture is made from beans.”

  Jim walked up to the picture. Sure enough. Elisa had glued hundreds of painted beans to a canvas, producing a somewhat realistic scene.

  She sure is talented,” Jim said. “As talented as she is pretty.”

  The Reverend pulled Jim aside, and whispered, “Look, son. Don’t be getting too close to her. She looks sweet and innocent, but she’s unstable. You know what I mean?”

  Jim stared back blankly. No, he didn’t know what the Reverend meant. And figured it was just the Reverend’s way to scare him away from his daughter.

  “Don’t doubt me, boy. She’ll hurt you. You do as I say. Now, let’s get back to work. Daylight’s burning.”

  Jim had hurt a few young girls along the way in his lifetime. A few wives too. He left them all with broken hearts. He knew better than to let the tables turn on him.

  The day melted into evening, and the evening into night. The two men retired from the field, and the four shared supper together. They passed the night with storytelling until the tiredne
ss of the day set in.

  Jim was to bed down in the room attached to the woodshed. Edna provided him with clean sheets, a pillow, and a blanket for a comfortable stay.

  While he prepared his bed, he saw Elisa though his window. She was in the house, in her room, by her window looking up into the sky at the full moon. Her long blond hair covered her left bosom. He swore he could make out the naked image of her right tit through her thin nightgown.

  The water pump in front of his room and a towel and bar of soap on the chest-of-drawers gave him an idea. He was going to set a trap and make himself the bait. Off came his shirt to the floor, followed by his pants and underwear. Jim went outside and posed by the pump.

  Pretending he was not aware of Elisa, he pumped a pail full of well water, dipped the soap in it, and lathered up in the cool night air. The moonlight glistened off his nude chest as he flexed and tightened his muscles as to work out the soreness of day.

  He chanced a peek toward Elisa’s window. He was surprised she was no longer there. He didn’t know if he had embarrassed her or if his plan had worked, and she was sneaking outside to see him.

  Thoughts that she might have gone to tell the Reverend he was acting lewdly outside her window made him worry he might have acted hastily. He realized he needed to stop listening to the little head between his legs and forget about the girl. He needed to just take the money and run.

  Jim dried off and returned to his room, blew out the candle, and got in bed. Elisa never showed up, but thankfully neither did the Reverend. It was too early to put his plan in action, so he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  He awoke to crickets chirping and looked at his watch. It was after 2 AM. Time for him to make his move.

  After dressing and sneaking across the yard, he entered the kitchen through the back door. The old wooden floors creaked underneath his feet. Ever so slowly he moved, step by step, until he reached the corner, and stood on his toes to get the jar behind the ceramic rooster.

  The metal top scraped against glass as he twisted it off. The noise sounded ten times louder in the calmness of night. He resumed his task more slowly, until the lid came off in his hand. In all, he counted over eighty dollars in the jar. It was probably the life savings of the humble Reverend.

  Placing the jar back on the shelf, Jim was nearly to the door when he heard Elisa whisper his name.

  Jim froze in his tracks. His mind raced. He turned and saw her holding a candle a few feet away. “Oh. Hi, Elisa,” he said softly. “I . . . I couldn’t sleep. Came for a glass of milk to help.”

  She turned her head to the side. “I’ll get you one.”

  Seeing her voluptuous figure pressing against her nightgown made his little head influence his better judgment once again. “Say, get you one too, and we’ll have it outside under the stars.”

  After she poured the milk, he took her by the hand and led her out. Jim leaned close by Elisa’s side, letting her hand go, and then slipped an arm around her waist.

  “Are you happy here? Living with you Ma and Pa?” Jim asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be happy?” she asked.

  “Life on a farm can be hard. You ever get a hankering to go to a big city? Maybe you should go to Hollywood. You’re pretty. You could be a star,” Jim said.

  “Hollywood is sin city, my Pa says. Only a Jezebel would parade herself that way across the big screen.”

  Jim finished his milk, took Elisa’s glass from her hand, and set both on the ground. “Why don’t you come away with me? I ain’t going to Hollywood. I’m going down south to work. You could come with me. We could get married and have children.”

  “Pa says I can’t get married. He says I’m cursed, and that I’ve got to live out here on the farm for the rest of my days,” Elisa said, without emotion.

  “Cursed? Why the only curse I see is that he’s got you hoodwinked on staying here. You’re young and beautiful. You need to leave your parents, just like Adam and Eve’s kids left them. Be fruitful and multiply or something like that.”

  Elisa frowned. “You shouldn’t be talking such nonsense. That’s the Devil talking.”

  “The Devil talking? Why, I tell you what, I saw you looking at me when I was bathing out here. You liked what you saw. I know you did. I know women, and I know you want me.”

  Elisa took a step back. “Jim! What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  Jim stepped toward her and gazed intently. “I can see with my own two eyes what kind of girl you are. Now, why don’t you come on into my room? I can make you feel real good.”

  Elisa turned her head from one side, then the other. “Pa says, if thy eye offends you, pluck it out.” She reached in a pocket of her nightgown, and pulled out a kitchen knife.

  Jims face lit up in surprise. The moonlight reflected off the blade as she thrust it up under his left eye and into his brain.

  * * *

  “What are you making there, Sweetheart?” the Reverend asked Elisa as she was working on a project at the kitchen table.

  “I’m making a jacket for my People-corn,” she said, tying a knot in the last stitch and biting it in two. “There. I’m finished.

  “People-corn, what’s that?” he asked.

  She got up from the table and went to the kitchen sink. An ear of corn lay on a towel next to it, a small pair of pants wrapped on the bottom end. With her back to her Pa, she put the jacket around the mid-section and straightened the clothing out. “There, it’s finished. What do you think? Ain’t he pretty?” She turned around and held the People-corn for him to see.

  Adorned to look like a miniature human, the ear of corn was complete with two of the bluest human eyes pinned to the top end, just under a tiny straw hat.

  The Reverend shook his head and said to himself, “I warned that boy.” Working the field would have to wait. He had another grave to dig behind the barn.

  The End

  Do Unto Others

  Nick Ott wanted to shut his eyes and blank out the image of the room and the implements used to inflict his suffering. Not that closing his eyes would do anything to quench the pain. He grasped for any type of relief from the excruciating agony his entire body had been suffering.

  His anguish was so intense he could not remember what normal felt like. The constant abuse kept his mind impaled to each succeeding second. He hoped if he could just close his eyes that somehow he could recall memories of pleasant times or create a fantasy that offered some respite. To somehow distract himself by blocking the images of the ghastly devices that were used on him as if he were a corpse on an autopsy table.

  Never had he imagined the panoply of pain the body was capable of feeling. He was in horrid wonder of the creative methods of his torture. Such ingenuity, as one area of nerves became overloaded to the point of numbness another set would be targeted to overwhelm. The pain continued to be fresh. The pain continued to be unique.

  Nick thought about death, the various ways to die. Drowning had always terrified him. The thought of not being able to breathe used to break him out in a cold sweat. Burning at the stake would engage every pain nerve in the body. He had feared death by fire the worst. However, the pain the blow torch brought to his genitals while it roasted to a black crisp lasted longer than if his whole body had been doused in gasoline and ignited. How he wished he had been set on fire. His life would be over now.

  Nick never imagined finding himself in such a predicament. Events such as these happened in ancient times, or by ruthless military regimes in backward countries. The portrayals of sadist capturing and torturing people were nothing more than fictitious creations of authors and movie directors, designed to sell the next book or the next sequel to the movie.

  What demented mind thinks like this? he wondered. His body felt fresh waves of pain as his mind uncontrollably recalled the abuse endured.

  The knife used to split his tongue in half was dull and chipped. Nick had felt the cold blade as it traveled every individual millimeter. Blood mixed wi
th saliva drooled down his chin, dripping down to the floor like unholy rain.

  Through the haze of shock he wasn’t able to identify the next tool his abuser chose from the table; an odd device that resembled a pear with a long threaded screw on the end. Nick winced in anticipation of being bludgeoned by it. Instead, the man stepped behind him, and he heard the sound of liquid squirting from a bottle. He was unprepared as the pear shaped object was shoved deep into his rectum. Burning pain shot through his groin area. If the sodomy alone had not been severe enough, the outside halves of the pear widened at the turning of the screw. The pain grew exponentially, until he felt as if his bowels pushed up to his throat.

  Nick had heard of death by one thousand cuts. He wished so badly that it had come true. His captor used a box cutter with the barest of blade exposed to make tiny cuts over his entire body. Surely he had been cut a thousand times ten. Every cut a sharp maddening pain, fresh each slice. Over and over again, until it felt like an army of ants consumed him one bit of flesh at a time.

  Other things had been done to him. With hammers, with saws, clamping tools, and pointed objects of every variety. Toes crushed, soft tissue mashed, cuts as deep as bone itself. His captor was thorough, ensuring that each individual fingernail on both hands had its own sliver of bamboo shoved underneath.

  Nick’s throat was sore from constant screaming and so dry that if given the chance he would cut his wrist to drink his own blood, and invite the darkness of death to comfort him.

  His torturer had told him the reason for his unfortunate fate, but he could no longer remember. The cruel man now sat across the room with elbows propped on the arms of an ornate mahogany chair, enjoying a cigarette. The stale smoke mixed with the metallic smell of blood and the pheromones of fear.

  As he hung by his arms from chains attached to the ceiling, Nick went to speak—to beg the man for mercy once again. Whether the mercy came in the form of being released or a swift end to his life he didn’t care anymore. He hadn’t cared for a long time if he lived or died. He only wanted relief.