He stood wheezing for a few moments. His hand planted on the black mound of sacks noticing for the first time the odd warmth that the mass seemed to emanate from within.
“You will come back, won’t you,” called Bobby from the depths of the warren, apparently aware of Arthur’s flight.
“Of course,” Arthur gasped, “I just need to get my breath. I’ll act as lookout in case anyone comes.”
It was an empty promise. No one ever came, but at least Arthur had an excuse to escape the compressed darkness and feeling of suffocation. He climbed onto the carriage’s roof and lay down staring up at cloud formations trying to regain his composure and slow his heart to a mere gallop.
Arthur wasn’t sure how long he lay there, gathering his thoughts, before he heard the heavy clump of work boots crunching across the thick white gravel. He rolled to the roof’s edge and peered cautiously over to see the tops of the heads of two men who were now stood within a few feet of the old boxcar.
“Well they’re not here now,” announced the shorter and fatter of the two men removing his cloth rail cap and scratching his freckled baldpate with dirt encrusted fingernails.
“Bloody kids,” said the taller of the two, who wore an orange high-visibility jacket and a white builder’s safety helmet. “Come on let’s not waste any more time.” The gravel crunched around him as he turned on his heels.
The smaller man remained. “Better check it our properly,” he sighed. “We’ll catch Hell if someone’s been messing around in here. Come on give me a bunk.”
His steel toecap rested on the opening to Arthur and Bobby’s hideaway.
Arthur rolled onto his back, panic gripped him. Bobby, was he still inside?
He heard the comical groans and sounds of heaving as the smaller man was propelled to the top of the black heap. He heard him stomping around inside the carriage, he even heard him begin to say “There’s nothing…” before there was a distinctive crack and a loud cry followed by a sharp expletive.
“….King get me out of here,” the small man shouted, struggling as the black mound collapsed beneath him.
Arthur was already scampering down the back rail of the mail carriage and was running even before hit the ground.
#
The dust in Arthur’s carriage had grown thicker; it rose from the grey-black seating and from the matted black carpet in miasmic waves. Arthur batted it away with a swipe of his hands. But it was definitely feeling warmer, so warm that Arthur allowed the jacket that he had draped over himself to fall away, he stretched out his legs and surprisingly struck the mass of the seat opposite, it kicked up a puff of dust in protest that swam in the milky light. Arthur followed the motes of dust up towards the narrow oblong window, which seemed filthier and grimier than ever, the moon beyond now seemed to be only a suggestion of pale slivered light. That was when he noticed that the walls around it had lost some of their luster and appeared now to be constructed from rough-hewn planking.
Arthur tried to take in the rest of the carriage to see if the change he had noticed was evident elsewhere but the light had diminished further and the gloom in the carriage seemed complete. He coughed softly. The dry dust was on his chest and irritating his throat. The he suddenly noticed that the size of the carriage had diminished; the opposite bench had crept closer still and the black ceiling above him begin to sag beneath its own weight. And that was when he saw it. The single eye, staring out at him, embedded in the warp and weft of the fabric of the seat before him. There could be no mistake this time, no trick of the light. Its heavy eyelid, grey and matted with dust, blinked once and Arthur knew. He rose and tried to flee but the harsh black seating material rose with him and engulfed him in its weight. It felt as if the ceiling had collapsed, as rigid mail sack after mail sack fell upon him. He struggled beneath them before finally breaching the surface for one final breath and there before him the shape began to rise and take form. Black and grey textures shifted and bubbled all about. A featureless head that held no flesh, twisted and turned towards him, he could see the finely textured pores wrought in the meshed material that formed the face and the deep black fabric maw that made up its decaying toothless mouth.
“I kknew yyou’d ccome bbback…” slurred the creature.
And the final shriek that emerged from Arthur’s mouth was louder than any train whistle.
THE END.
TOUCH OF THE INNOCENT by Jim Lee
Ben Garrett realized he was alone—thankfully, blessedly alone. And he relaxed, giving in to the exhaustion and the pain. They were gone and Ben was grateful. But along with the relief came a vague apprehension: something was still wrong. But what? What could be wrong with not being hurt, with being let alone? Hadn’t he wanted that—more than anything—just moments ago?
Yes, something was very wrong. But Ben Garrett’s mind was still swirling, still cloudy from the beating he’d endured, and he couldn’t quite figure what was amiss. In frustration, Ben shook his head, the motion triggering fresh waves of pain and nausea.
He hurt …
Ben gave up trying to remember.
#
The Savages, they called themselves.
And the past three years had proved the name no exaggeration. Life in Riverton had become a nightmare of threats, intimidation and sheer mindless violence—even grave robbing.
Poor old Dave Petrore, his still fresh corpse dug up and mutilated! They never did find all of him, or even prove the biker gang was to blame. But who else would do such a thing?
Savages, indeed.
Perhaps more than most, the young Reverend Garrett hated them and what they’d done to Riverton. He was a native son and had long dreamed of returning to the sturdy, red-bricked church at the edge of town, as its minister. But the presence of theses Savages had spoiled his homecoming, ruining his happy dreams. They made his assignment such a dark and ugly thing that he had briefly considered asking for a transfer.
But one thing made life bearable—the new girl, Cindy.
She had come to town soon after his return, a shy and very quiet little thing in a strange town and on her own. Painfully thin, Ben had noticed. He wondered if she’d ever had a proper meal. His sympathies aroused, he befriended her—took her into the congregation; helped her make new friends.
And in the course of things, he came to love her.
Happily, she felt the same and they married. The Reverend Brendan came out from Johnstown to do the honors. For the honeymoon, Tom Sellers lent them his cabin, promising a week of peace, quiet and privacy. It was early fall and hunting season was still a few weeks off, so the cabin had seemed ideal. They could fish or hike, or just sit around and watch the leaves color up. They could simply be together, to taste the simple joy of that.
And so it was for one afternoon and one night—especially the wondrous night, their first together. The Reverend Garrett found his new wife so beautiful, so sweet and innocent. A virgin bride in this day and age! When he realized it was true, Ben felt ashamed, remembering his high school days and Lucy Johnson.
But then, as he began to teach his nervous wife the ways of love, he thought it was just as well. To know how to please her, to make this special for her—that was an important thing.
But then, with the cold light of dawn and the roar of motorcycle engines, they had come. They were mean and surly, virulent and almost inhuman things, these three Savages …
#
It was a distant scream that brought it back to him. Dimly, he recalled the big one with the ugly scar, leering at Cindy and talking about the lakeside clearing, the one with the view. The ‘romantic’ view, the biker had called it sneeringly, his oily paw moving down her dress …
A second cry came and Ben bellowed in response, pulling at his bonds with sudden, freshened vigor.
They had Cindy!
Abruptly, his only thought was of getting free—getting free and saving her.
For the first time in his life, the Reverend Garrett was ready to kill.
>
No, more than ready—he wanted to kill.
Ben wanted to crush the life from all three of them, for what they were surely doing to his bride—to his dear and precious, exquisitely innocent Cindy.
A pathetic, hopeless wail set him off again in a frenzy of outrage and frustration. This new cry was blood-curdling, even worse than what had come before—worse, and far different somehow.
But Ben was long past noting such subtleties. All he knew was hate—a pure and driving, an uncontrollable and fierce hate.
An arm came loose then a leg. In moments he was free and on his feet. Limping from the ransacked cabin, he turned down the path to the lake. He was almost to the fateful clearing when Ben finally allowed himself to hear the silence. He stopped, grabbed a low-hanging pine branch for support and listened carefully.
There were no more creams, no more desperate cries for help.
It was over.
Over—the one word reverberated in Ben Garrett’s skull with awful certainty.
Quivering, he reached down and grasped a stone—small but pointed. It wasn’t much of a weapon, really. But Ben resolved to make it do.
He trudged on, zombie-like and quite unaware of any physical discomfort.
He reached the clearing and found the pale blue lake, shimmering in the midday sun. Its peaceful beauty mocked him.
Then at last he saw …
Ben Garrett stood there blinking, not daring to believe or think.
Finally, he tossed the stone aside and began to hobble over to where his new wife was bending over one of the bikers. The other two were sprawled nearby, as unmoving as the first one in the blood-soaked grass.
Dead?
An image came to Ben—a sick, yet welcome one.
The three Savages quarreling—perhaps over who would get to rape Cindy first? And their argument erupting into a short and deadly burst of the violence they were known for.
Ben’s mouth curled into an evil smile. He halted beside his wife and spoke her name.
Cindy started and looked up.
Then Ben saw the blood.
Lots and lots of blood: on her hands, on the tattered remnants of her dress. And on her face: A single, bright red trail of it ran down her chin.
Blankly, Ben stared—first at the blood then at what was left of the dead biker’s upper arm. Half of it was gone. There were teeth marks on what remained.
The Reverend Garrett gasped and staggered backwards.
“Oh, Ben!” his new wife was saying as she got to her feet. “Oh, no! I’m sorry! Never wanted you to know … but I couldn’t just let them …” Cindy bowed her head. “They—and after they were dead, the smell of all this good, fresh meat … I just couldn’t help it. I’ve tried to change. I swear I have—for you, Ben. I told myself poor Mr. Petrore would be the last. That I’d make do with the foods you eat. But sometimes the need, the hunger …”
Hopelessly, she searched his face for understanding.
Instead she found the same old mixture of horror and revulsion. Mortals never understood.
So she’d lost him—that much was plain to see.
She was alone again, as she’d been for so very long—for all the lonely, empty years, the aimless decades. But the worst part was the knowing what came next—what she must now do, merely to survive.
Assuming she even wanted to survive.
In that instant of too-familiar despair, it was a very open question.
Cindy stood there, heartsick and indecisive. She asked herself how much this unending, unhappy life really meant to her. Could she do it—to him?
Could she bring herself to kill the only true love she’d ever known?
But then Ben’s courage failed him and he broke for cover, screaming incoherently.
Instantly, all of Cindy’s doubts were gone—pushed aside by the awful instinct of the hunt.
What followed was pure reflex.
For, yes, some of what you may have heard is true. The legends aren’t all wrong.
Ghouls are real, you see. But they are unlike us—quite unlike their prey, their human cousins.
They know no cruelty and no evil darkens their strange yet spotless souls. Of all that they are truly innocent. And when they kill, it is by instinct alone—not by plan or even choice!
THE END.
SEEING THINGS by Sara Green
In a violent flash I see them, twisting, gnawing, clawing their way around my co-workers’ necks. I only actually see them for a glance, but a residual image hangs in my mind. A terrible vision of small pale creatures, with tiny hands and long fingers and toes, and heads like snakes.
I wasn’t always troubled like this.
I remember when it all started because I thought it was just food poisoning.
It was a Wednesday and Jeff Williams and I met at the hip new Afro-Caribbean restaurant, Bu Mu. The conversation wasn’t memorable and the food was whatever I had expected but as we both go up, we both felt sick.
The stomachache stayed with me at work and that’s when the visions started.
Rapid bursts of these creatures, always the same ones, crawling like rats where they weren’t supposed to be. But I was aware they weren’t really there, or at least still believed they weren’t.
I called Jeff after work and he said he’d also felt terrible.
“But have you seen anything? Like delusions?”
“Yeah, actually, I saw one in the mirror, I swear I thought something was crawling all over me. Man we must’ve had something bad.”
“No, kidding.”
Jeff agreed to look into legal action and I just hoped I’d feel better in the morning. I had vivid dreams that I couldn’t remember, only that they had felt real and false. Like I was walking around in someone else’s shoes.
I popped on the morning show like I always do, mainly to drown out the sound of the coffee maker which gurgled and dripped like someone having trouble using the bathroom.
The anchorman smiled about the warm weather, I saw one crawl on him, and the female anchor with the ten pounds of makeup had four on her. And the male anchor fighting a receding hairline seemed to be a puppet of a whole lot of them.
But I only ever saw the creatures once, then no more. I was left to my memory, my delusional memory to remember who I saw them on.
Jeff had done some digging.
Bu Mu was rather recently established, owners had renovated an older Mexican Restaurant, that I must’ve eaten at before, but had kept most of the same colors. The owner was from Richmond, Virginia and had moved to Roanoke solely to start the new business. All her health records checked out, and her whole life amounted to one parking ticket back in 1990. The only thing that didn’t sit well with Jeff was that she had only ever run this restaurant.
So we sick the health inspector on her.
He came up with a clean report.
Her name was Wanda Carpenter.
While the upset stomach went away, my delusions did not. Neither did Jeff’s.
Jeff had to work more of his magic and that got us a meeting with the owner. The meeting was under the presumption that we were a delivery service in town that would deliver for places that didn’t normally.
But the woman, who’s eyes could’ve sat in the back of her head (they were so sunken), did not look surprised when we asked her if any of her food had ever been ‘hallucinogenic.’
She smiled in fact.
A smile with teeth that were separated the width of a toothpick in the smallest of gaps and perhaps a number two pencil between her two front teeth.
“Why doncha juss axe?”
She issued a challenged with the eyes of a mad fighter, a drunk at the bar daring us.
“The only thing we both did that day was eat here. It just narrows it down to the fact that it was something we were exposed to here.” Jeff had no fear apparently.
I couldn’t say a word and that made her look at me, challenge me.
“Cat gotcha tongue?”
A cat meowe
d in the woman’s windowsill. It was perfect timing if nothing else, because it made Wanda laugh.
“Pussy, Pussy.” She called the cat. Perhaps she was taunting us.
“Ma’am,” Jeff started in all politeness.
“Have dey started takin’ a notice to ya?” She asked as she bent down to pet the cat with perfect timing.
“What?”
“Comes back when dey does.”
And she walked back into her office the cat purring at her ankles, eagerly keeping pace.
“This is ridiculous!” Jeff accompanied his disdain with a few curse words hoping the woman might hear him, or at least her customers.
“I haven’t seen anything in a while, maybe it’s wearing off.” I grabbed Jeff’s shoulder and headed towards the door. He followed raising his voice louder.
“Won’t be coming back to Bu Mu! Ever!”
Back in the car Jeff had not let up one bit, “We can drive her out of here, no one needs to eat at Bu Mu, stupid name, stupid food, don’t need it. There’s plenty of fine places and I don’t think she even has a single gluten free item on the menu.”
I might’ve laughed or fed his spite but I saw one. Crawling on a young man with a pair of headphones and a pair pants which did more work as a pair of shoes than it did at covering his britches.
The delusions weren’t gone.
Jeff called me later that night.
I’d hid myself in a book, hoping to take my mind off the delusions, absolutely convinced that I must be instigating them.
“I’m feeling better.” He noted, “Haven’t seen a thing all day, you doing any better?”
“Sure,” I figured.
“Been drinking plenty of water? That’s good. Hey I’ll pick the place we eat next time, right?”
That was the extent of our conversation. I went to bed feeling cured.
But of course I was wrong.
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