My shoulders immediately relaxed. I was able to pry my fingers out of the tight fists where they had been starting to cramp. The sound of blood rushing in my ears began to subside.
A gentle hand touched my shoulder. “Sir, do you need an ambulance?”
I straightened up. I was flanked by two women with furrowed brows. All the people in the small outdoor eating area had turned to look at the weird guy crouched below the ordering window.
“No, thanks, I’m good,” I wheezed. My face grew warm with embarrassment. I hoped no bystanders would assume a flushed face was an additional heart attack symptom.
The women exchanged glances, and I could tell they didn’t believe me. Men, I imagined them telling each other telepathically, they never go to the doctor until it’s too late.
I stuffed the mess of bills and coins into my pocket, ignoring the few pennies that fell to the ground. Marty was staring at me.
“You know what, Marty, I’ll pass on the hot dogs today. Maybe another time.”
The women nodded, eyes soft with concern. Like he needs a hot dog. Maybe this will be a wake-up call for him. “Do you need us to call someone to take you home?” the shorter of the pair said. “Maybe you shouldn’t be driving right now.”
God, I knew these women were well-meaning, but a tide of crippling anxiety had rushed in to replace the rage. I just wanted them to go away and stop speaking to me.
“Really, I’m okay, but thanks,” I mumbled as I turned away. They didn’t respond, and I assumed they’d gotten the message. The background sounds of people eating and chatting resumed as I trudged back to my car.
Once behind the wheel, I locked all the doors before reaching into my pocket again. The sun shone hot through the windshield, and I could feel slick beads of sweat beginning to pool along my hairline. The heat was stifling, and I promised myself that I would start the car in just a moment. I couldn’t deal with anything else before I faced the bill.
I pulled out the crumpled bunch of bills and began unfolding them one by one, slowly. I squinted my eyes until they were almost completely closed. Maybe if I shut them quickly enough, I wouldn’t feel that wave, that urge of violence that came over me when I saw the red letters on the ten dollar bill.
First bill, nothing. I set it on the passenger seat.
Second bill, blank as well.
Third bill—
KILL.
The letters jumped at me, a crimson splattering across Hamilton’s bland composure. A thirst for violence rose inside me like boiling oil before I remembered to squeeze my eyes all the way shut.
It didn’t help.
I opened my eyes wide, keeping them focused on the steering wheel. My thoughts raced. What if—oh God—what if someone were to knock on my car window, some concerned Samaritan from the hot dog stand asking yet again if I was okay, and what if I reached up, clutched their head in an iron grip, and forced my thumbs into their eye sockets—
A slight shifting noise caught my attention, and I flicked my glance to the passenger seat before I could help myself. The water-filled plastic bag had slumped with the angelfish now moving around inside, wide awake. I looked right into its lidless, flat eyes and hated everything about it in that moment.
My hands, curled into claws, grabbed the bag and lifted it up. Now I knew what those horrified bystanders at Fatso’s had felt like, powerless to do anything as they saw me keel over into the gravel. All I could do was watch. I dreaded and relished what was about to happen.
The poor fish began darting around the bag, fins flicking as it tried to find a place to hide, accustomed to the weeds and coral in an aquarium tank. My hands began to squeeze the bag slowly. Whereas the ant’s death had been sudden, some twisted part of me wanted to draw this one out. Emotions that humanity had long ago resigned to the brain stem, through hundreds of years of social conditioning, were surging to the surface in a terrifying and thrilling rush. I was a predator to the fish but prey to this impulse of anger, rage, and violence.
Pressure built up inside the bag until the seams gave, and water began dribbling, then spurting out of holes torn in the stretched plastic, pouring between my fingers and wetting the seats and center console. A faint briny odor filled the car. The angelfish had run out of room and options and hung in the remaining space, which was getting smaller and smaller as more water gushed from the mangled bag. I had one last glimpse of silver and black scales, and that tiny, helpless eye, before I completely crushed the bag between my hands, pulverizing the poor creature within.
The entire ordeal took about thirty seconds—from nervous, to furious, to bliss. Relief crept in as I regained control of my body, followed by disgust and horror at the mess I’d made. I’d killed an innocent animal in the most brutal way possible! Angry tears sprung to my eyes, and I wiped them with my wet sleeve. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the crumpled plastic bag discarded on the seat.
I wiped my soaked hands on the sides of my jeans, then, fixing my eyes on the dashboard, I blindly stuffed the mess of cash into my wallet—anything to hide those red letters burned into my memory. Seeing them would set me off again.
And I still didn’t remember which exact bill contained the ominous word.
I started the car and slowly pulled out of the parking lot, flicking a guilty glance at the stand. No one paid attention as I cruised away, my shaking hands the only indication that anything cataclysmic had occurred only ten minutes before.
When I pulled open the front door, the smell of fried onion and garlic smacked me in the nose. Martha was peeling carrots in the kitchen. “Hey, hon,” she said, crossing the room to kiss me. “All done with errands?”
“Yeah,” I responded, wrapping my arms around her waist and burying my face in her hair. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. “You smell so good.”
“It’s the garlic,” she laughed, gently breaking my embrace. “Let me stir it before it burns.” She glanced down at her apron, where I’d left a damp stain. Despite driving home with the windows down, my clothes and car interior had not completely dried. “Why’re you wet?” she asked, dabbing at her apron with a dishtowel.
“Spilled some water in the car,” I said in a rush. I’d thrown away the bag with the dead fish before coming inside. I quickly changed the subject. “You’re making dinner already? It’s not even three.”
“Remember, we’re going to Jodie’s for dinner,” Martha replied, taking up the knife and slicing the carrots. “It’s potluck for Harry’s graduation.”
I snorted. “That’s tacky.”
Martha shrugged. “I don’t care, I’ll take any excuse to cook. I’m making black bean soup. Speaking of which, can you wash your hands and open those cans for me?” She nodded toward the counter where two cans of beans sat waiting.
“How was Fatso’s?” she asked, picking up the knife and slicing the carrots into thin strips.
I shrugged, and after no response, remembered her back was to me. “I didn’t go.” Should I tell her what happened? I hardly believed it myself. Those letters were fading quickly from my mind.
“Huh,” she said. “Were they closed?”
“No,” I grumbled. “Didn’t feel like hot dogs today.”
The last thing I wanted was a million questions thrown my way. I could hear them now. What exactly happened? Are you sure you’re okay? Are you feeling dizzy? Does your chest hurt? If I wanted all that, I would’ve just agreed to the ambulance in the first place.
By this time, my head was feeling clearer and my heartbeat was plodding along with its slower, familiar pace. For some reason, the afternoon’s events already seemed like a hazy recollection, like the fragments of a dream right upon waking. The more I tried to grasp the urgency of that cursed bill in my wallet, and remember what I’d done to the angelfish, the further away the danger felt.
“If you want lunch, there are leftovers in the fridge,” Martha said, breaking into my reverie. “Help yourself.”
“Think I will,” I said, opening the la
st can. I threw a container of last night’s dinner in the microwave, and as it warmed up, dumped my wallet and keys on the table. I then ran back out to the car to fetch the shopping.
“Oh, did you get your new angelfish, like you were planning?” Martha called as I stepped out the door, but I pretended not to hear her.
By the time I had my feet up on the ottoman, guzzling pesto pasta in the living room while watching a Seinfeld rerun, I was feeling almost completely normal, and had forgotten all about that ten-dollar bill.
“Beer?”
“Sure,” I said, accepting the cold Coors can and cracking it open.
The graduation potluck was bustling. About thirty people were packed into a hundred square feet of Jodie’s fenced-in backyard. Fairy lights dangled between bamboo poles, adding a warm glow to the slowly creeping darkness as the night set in. Solid shapes were a little fuzzy around the edges, but I couldn’t tell if that was from the dim evening light or the beer I’d consumed. Probably both.
Martha’s soup had been well received; on my fifth trip to the buffet table, I noticed a guest scraping the bottom of the serving bowl. The party guests had been ravenous. Only a few dishes sported remnants stuck to their sides. Just scattered crumbs remained on the dessert table. And everyone was guzzling the cheap beer like water.
“Dave,” said a voice behind me. I turned and saw Chris with his wallet in his hand. “I’m making a beer run. You mind throwing in a few bucks? Didn’t want Jodie and Brad to feel like they needed to pony up cash for the drunks.”
I rolled my eyes. “Really? We guests brought all this food and they don’t even have enough beer?”
Chris huffed sympathetically. “Yeah, I know, but I’d rather just get more to drink now—while I can still drive—than regret it later, when we actually are out of beer and I can’t drive.”
“Fair enough,” I replied, reaching into my back pocket. The moment my fingers touched the leather, I froze. The afternoon's events rushed back into my mind, sending chills down my spine like cold lightning.
How could I have been so stupid, leaving the bill in my wallet? I couldn’t open it up now. What if I saw the bill? Or gave it to Chris? What would I do to him? Or him to me? Maybe I was just being ridiculous.
Chris was watching my face drain of color. “You okay?”
“You know what?” I gasped through a dry mouth, “I don’t have any cash on me. Just remembered.”
“No worries,” said Chris, turning away to pester someone else for beer money. “I’ll cover you this time.” As he walked away, he shot me a worried glance over his shoulder.
I stepped away from the crowd to think. Maybe when I got home, I’d pull out my cards, then throw the whole wallet away. It was a good wallet, though . . . no, I knew what to do. I’d close my eyes, pull out all the cash, throw it into the trash. Wait—what if I accidentally saw the red-splattered bill in the trash can? Okay, I’d close my eyes, pull out the cash, stuff it into an old sock, then throw the sock away. That sounded good. As soon as I got home.
I was mentally revising how much money I’d be out when Martha came over and slipped her arm around me. “How’re you doing, hon?”
“Fine,” I said, not paying attention to her. Most of the partygoers were milling over to one side of the backyard. Harry, who had just graduated from high school, was flanked by Jodie and Brad, his parents. He laughed as he sat down in a camping chair while Jodie turned to a side table with some wrapped gifts and a shallow wicker basket filled with graduation cards. She handed her son a gift bag while Brad took a photo. The other guests were chatting quietly, forming a loose circle around the family.
“People sure loved my soup. Did you see?”
“Uh-huh.”
Harry reached into the gift bag and pulled out an envelope. He opened it up and took out a card, reading it aloud. It must have been funny—some people chuckled—but I couldn’t hear what Harry had said. He spoke a few words and put the card aside.
“Oh, hey, don’t worry about Chris. I gave him cash for beer, since you told him you were out. I forgot to tell you I’d taken some money from your wallet, but I didn’t think I’d taken all of it.”
“Yeah.”
Harry was opening a new envelope. His fingers fumbled with the seal.
Then I processed what Martha had really said.
“What? You took money out of my wallet?” I stepped away from her, and my eyes must have been blazing with terror, which she interpreted as anger. She frowned at my reaction.
I was torn between concern and fear. Had Martha seen the bill and lashed out, like I did? Had she killed something . . . or someone? She hadn’t left the house since I’d come home, and the place was spotless when we left.
Could she even read those four red letters? I thought of the young female cashier at PetSmart, counting out my cash with a cheerful smile. She hadn’t clenched her fists or broken out in a cold sweat like I had when I saw the cursed bill. Perhaps women didn’t fall under the money’s spell? I had no way of knowing.
As I put the pieces together, Martha’s voice, sharp now, cut into my stream of thought.
“Jesus, Dave, it was only fifty bucks. I could’ve sworn I left some in there—”
“What did you do with it?” I spat. My hands were starting to shake again. “Where is it?” My hand shot out towards the purse under her arm as she leaned back, eyes wide.
“I didn’t rob you, for Chrissake. I needed some money for Harry’s graduation card, so when you were in the shower, I took some out of your wallet. What’s the big deal?”
Martha looked pissed.
A strangled scream tore my eyes from my wife, and I looked up just in time to see Harry springing out of his seat and lunging for his mother’s throat.
LINDSEY RAGSDALE lives in Chicago, writing grants for non-profit organizations by day and dreaming up horror stories by night. She loves to read, game, and cook in her free time. This is her first published story.
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Illustration by Joe Radkins
We the artists and writers of this anthology offer our love and gratitude to every member of HOWL Society for supporting both the development of this project and the growth of our community. Special thanks to Discord users Mantis Shrimp and Guolverain for bringing the hype, Anna, Asenath, Kips, Philippa, and The Left Reverend for beta-reading stories, Cheese Dance for developing our website, Mollyec for designing our graphics, and of course, The Sleeping Queen, for without her recruitment post on /r/HorrorLit and her ensuing creation of our Discord server, neither HOWL Society nor this anthology would have ever existed. And furthermore, we cannot forget Lord Mordi, a.k.a. THOT Father, who upon the hibernation of The Sleeping Queen dedicated his life to building and maintaining a place that we horror-lovers can call “home.”
Furthermore, while the writers in Howls From Hell devoted countless hours to critiquing, copyediting, and proofreading one another’s stories, we would like to acknowledge those specific individuals who volunteered further services toward the culmination of this project: Solomon Forse for overseeing the entire operation, Alex Wolfgang for formatting the book, Thea Maeve for managing our social media, Shane Hawk for championing our cause on Twitter and beyond, and both Joe Radkins and P.L. McMillan for taking on nearly all the artwork single-handedly.
Lastly, we would like to recognize those members of the greater horror community who have not only contributed to the success of this anthology but to the spirit of HOWL Society: Grady Hendrix, B.R. Yeager, Mercedes M. Yardley, Tim Waggoner, M.E. Bronstein, Thomas Tryon, Stephen Graham Jones, J.D. Horn, Laurel Hightower, Cina Pelayo, Ellen D. G., Surging Goremess, and Shane’s grandma.
HOWL Society, located on Discord, is the most active horror book club on the web. With hundreds of members, the club offers readers the chance to join a supportive community where they can enjoy books alongside other horror-lovers while engaging in meaningful discussions and forming long-lasting friendships. Aside from serving as an organized platform f
or discussing books, HOWL Society is also home to a tight-knit group of horror writers. Additionally, members can participate in tangential conversations about horror films, horror games, and much more. Because the club aims to provide equal access to all readers and writers around the world, membership is 100% free.
* * *
The Book Club
No membership fees
All club activity for HOWL Society takes place on Discord
Each month, club members vote on the horror titles that will be read in the following month
The club reads one book per week, members obtaining copies of physical books, ebooks, or audiobooks according to their preferences
Members are not expected to read every title
Each book is separated into three sections and assigned to an individual channel
Discussions for each section initiate on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 12:00 p.m. EST
During discussion, members use spoiler tags to ensure a safe discussion for those who choose to read at their own pace
At the end of each discussion, members may participate in a survey to share a personal blurb which may later appear in the official HOWL Society review
* * *
Learn more at howlsociety.com.
Howls From Hell Page 29
