Deadman's Tome: Monsters Exist

by Mr. Deadman

  The cameraman exited first through the diner’s door. Marla sidled up to Jaxon, whispering in his ear, “And we can use him as bait.”

  Jaxon smiled.

  ***

  They’d dodged the traffic just fine, despite Mack’s lame warning. Jaxon wished he’d had his handgun that was in the glovebox of his truck as he led the way over the open field. By the light of the yellowish moon, his gait was hesitant, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

  Jaxon heard the flick of Marla’s lighter.

  She puffed the cigarette to life, the embers firing up.

  The cameraman paused to check his equipment.

  “Can I have one?” Jaxon asked.

  She slipped a stick from the pack and ignited it.

  “And, you better blur out my fucking face on that feed,” Jaxon said to the camera guy.

  “You got it, chum.” He wiped the lens with his sleeve.

  “What’re you filming for, anyway?” Jaxon asked.

  “Trying to pilot a new show called ‘Legend Trippers’.”

  Jaxon chuckled. “Perfect.” He flinched at a crunching sound in the shrubs. “Did you hear that?”

  Marla’s hand unsteady as she took a drag of her cigarette, she shook her head.

  The cameraman began recording.

  Jaxon surveyed the open space and the rusted iron base of the trestle. Graffiti decorated the beams while empty beer bottles, gum and candy wrappers littered the ground. He tossed his smoke and extinguished it with his boot.

  “You okay?” he asked Marla.

  She nodded, drawing in the last drag before tossing the butt to the trestle base.

  Extending his hand, Jaxon waited for her take it. Then he plodded into the woods, Marla staggering along behind him.

  Crickets chirruped. Leaves swished in the breeze.

  At the sound of a sudden rustling, they paused, scanning the area.

  Marla grimaced and grabbed ahold of Jaxon’s upper arm. Her breath tickled his neck, and the hairs rose along his body. He wasn’t sure if it was because she was close, or because he was afraid.

  The outline of a girl wearing a dress appeared between the trees, her arms limp at her sides. As she tottered closer, her dark hair shone in the moonlight, and her eyes sparkled despite the dim light.

  “Natalie?” Marla asked, letting go of Jaxon and taking a couple of steps forward.

  Sections of the girl's dress were tattered and flecked with dirt. “I’m alright. I’m going home.”

  Marla dashed to the girl, throwing her arms around her. “Oh, thank God.”

  Natalie didn't react.

  “Come on, let’s go.” Marla let go of her cousin and surveyed the darkness as if expecting to see something. All was oddly silent and still.

  “I want to dance. It’s so beautiful tonight.” The girl swayed on her feet.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Marla tilted her head and wrinkled her nose.

  “No, really.” Her shoulders rhythmically bobbed. “I’m fine.”

  Slowly turning away, Natalie’s steps were so light she left no imprints in the grass. Her skirt swooshed in the returning wind.

  Marla bit her lip as she looked to Jaxon. She tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  The girl disappeared into a thicket.

  Jaxon knew he had to do something and lunged after her.

  The cameraman whispered, “No! What are you doing?”

  But Jaxon went anyway. When he scurried into the shadows of the trees to scoop her up, she wasn’t there. The moon broke through the cover of branches, speckling the vacant space with a dim leopard spotted illumination.

  Marla gripped Jaxon’s shoulder upon his return, pressing up against his back. Her head dodged and weaved like a confused animal. “Where’d she go?”

  He put his hand on hers. “Don’t know.”

  They stepped cautiously in unison. A strange stillness invaded the night once more. Out of the corner of his vision, Jaxon saw a tiny glint like two eyes. Hoping to spy an owl or even a bat, by the time he turned, whatever it was had vanished.

  Jaxon looked to Marla, her face tensed in terror.

  Putting his hand to his jaw, he glanced in the direction of the eyes. A fleeting shadow of something wielding an axe passed through the trees. For a brief second he could’ve sworn it shifted into the outline of his father, a vacant stare through that creepy latex mask searching for him in the darkness.

  Jaxon stiffened. “Now what?” he whispered.

  Her unsteady finger pointed in the direction where Natalie had wandered off, and she shook her head. “Let’s go back.” She tugged on his T-shirt.

  “Shit, I think I got something!” the cameraman hissed.

  Neither Marla nor Jaxon acknowledged the remark.

  The thought of going back, of being the ultimate coward, wasn’t an option for Jaxon.

  As they marched on, he served as Marla’s shield. There was a dense structure amid the brush. It was a thatched bunch of sticks and branches woven thickly together. Through the bushes, someone or something breathed heavily through blocked nasal passages, creating a viscous sucking sound accompanied by an intermittent snarl.

  Marla plastered herself against Jaxon. Her shivering made him jumpy, yet he continued to push forward. In fact, he didn’t know if she was shaking, or if it was him. He bit his tongue.

  The ground seemed to have its own gravitational pull, making Jaxon strain to lift each leaden step. His whole body felt like a pile of rocks he had to drag along with Marla, who hung onto him like a lodestone. When they closed in on what appeared to be a lair, a soft moan rose from within. Twigs snapped inside.

  “Natalie?” Marla whispered.

  “Marla? Stay away!” the girl replied in a jittery voice.

  Jaxon whirled around and clutched Marla’s shoulders, glaring at her. “Don’t move.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just don’t move.” Jaxon drew toward the enclosure, holding his breath. His heart pounded with each step until he planted his feet in a wide stance. There was no time to wonder what the monster wanted with Natalie, what it’d already done to her.

  A heavy thud made the ground tremble. Jaxon felt something like hot breath on the back of his neck. Marla screamed so loud it echoed.

  “Natalie?” he yelped.

  She answered with a desperate whimper.

  “Natalie, I need you to run. Do you hear me?” Jaxon heard himself sound like his father when he had managed to contain his rage.

  Unwavering, Jaxon was a wall between her and the thing at his back.

  The girl squirmed from the woven mass of twigs, some of them cracking as they scraped her arms and legs, ripping the sides of her dress. She scuttled like a crab under Jaxon, scrambling to her feet, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Run!” he yelled.

  “But—” Marla said.

  “Just run!” Jaxon repeated.

  “Holy shit!” the camera guy exclaimed, peeking out from behind the lens.

  At the sound of their hasty departure, Jaxon gulped and faced the creature. Its knobby horns reached for the moon, its snout angled downward as if sniffing the terror oozing from Jaxon’s every pore. Matted and greasy ebony fur covered its humanoid upper form, broad shoulders and muscular arms. It stood on a pair of hulking goat-like legs ending in cleft hooves. Slatted red lava-eyes glowed supernaturally in the night, steeped in anger and flashing hypnotically like a neon sign shorting out.

  Jaxon was struck dumb, his thoughts and instincts ebbing from his mind. They were replaced by an overwhelming rage, laced with jealousy and a stinging sorrow. These weren’t his feelings. “What do you want?” he asked in a daze, not really sure he verbalized anything at all.

  The answer was a crooked claw extending to his face.

  Jaxon closed his eyes, as if avoiding Medusa’s gaze, the scent much like a wet dog offending his nose. He gradually backed away, one foot after the other, eyelids clenched tight
, as he pretended this thing was only his father in a Halloween costume. Stumbling over the rocky ground behind him, Jaxon opened his eyes. It was then he glimpsed the rusty axe hanging at the beast’s side.

  The urge to spin around and run was erased by the creature’s ability to invade his mind. Jaxon slowly forgot who he was, why he was here, even what was happening. His futile strain to hold onto his thoughts was like sand slipping through his fingers. Even the awareness of his body and his vision were disappearing. He stood there, a hollowed shell of a man, staring blindly at nothing at all.

  “Holy shit! Holy shit!” the cameraman murmured in the darkness.

  A booming snarl filled the air like it was the only sound that ever was, as the goat creature faced the camera. The human-like lips on the oily-haired face upturned into what appeared to be a demented grin. Sharp fangs glistened in the moonlight.

  The bold cameraman had closed in on the scene to get a better shot. Their eyes met in confrontation, the Goatman still wearing its demonic smile. Frozen by the realization that this was the end, the camera slipped off his shoulder. The monster’s dull blade sliced into his victim’s neck, skidding through his tissue and bone as the camera clattered to the ground. A pitiful shriek died, as his head hurtled and then rolled until it bumped into a tree trunk. Blood spurted and rained from his body that stood on its own before crumbling to the earth.

  Adrenaline making him sick, the gore of the decapitated journalist compounding it, Jaxon dove for the camera. He’d be damned if the cameraman died in vain, the evidence of this urban legend going to waste.

  A rippling hairy arm snatched Jaxon’s jacket as he sailed through the air. The Goatman pulled Jaxon up so they were eye to eye, Jaxon’s legs kicking for solid ground. One of its hoofs stomped the camera over and over, shattering it to bits.

  ***

  I know this won’t end well for Jaxon, but I’m watching it all anyway. Sadly, I can’t interfere with the chain of events. You see, I’m stuck here and have no idea when I’ll be able to go to the light, if that’s really where the dead really go. All I know is this is worse than hell. Maybe that’s what this is, a customized hell for what I’ve done.

  I don’t know what year it is now, but in 1973 it was my idea to come up here with a bunch of kids on Halloween. We smoked a couple of joints and finished a case of beer. Me and Vance, like a couple of morons, walked the trestle right before we heard the whistle and saw the headlights. I’ll never forget the screams, nor the slow motion sensation of the impact. Vance was ground under the train when I looked back, just moments before I was hit. I never saw the Pope Lick that night, but have countless times since, whenever there’s another slaughter on the tracks. None of the victims ever see me as I try to snap them out of their stupor. The Goatman didn’t need to use that on us because we were stupid enough already, but he helps most of them along.

  Like now.

  The creature’s ear perks in the direction of the train whistle in the distance, flashing its yellowed fangs, and setting Jaxon on his feet. Before he can run, the monster’s blazing eyes bore into Jaxon’s. As if an unseen hand on his head spins him around, Jaxon turns and wanders to the slope leading to the trestle top. I can hear his spliced bits of memory: his father slurring that Jaxon was a worthless piece of shit, that he should have been the gunshot victim at the crime scene that night—he wished he was wiping down his own son’s biological waste. Jaxon’s sister yelling she hated him for not protecting her, her last words to him. His best army buddy, his face burned beyond recognition, his ear flapping from his head, only gurgling as blood filled his mouth. Jaxon, after a twelve pack, stopping his balled fist from swinging at his fiancé, her wide eyes of incredulity and horror, wailing about how she couldn’t do this anymore. All of it replays in his mind, creating a loathing of himself and his life—yet it’s tainted with a curious jealousy for having lived a life at all.

  I cringe. If only I could disconnect the creature’s hold on him while its twisted claw is outstretched, targeted on Jaxon’s back.

  I wave my hand in front of his face, just in case he can see me.

  Nothing.

  A female scream erupts from somewhere in the night.

  Stepping onto the tracks, Jaxon isn’t the least bit phased by the rumbling locomotive shaking the trestle. The whistle howls frantically, joined by the screeching grinding of the brakes. “Get outta the way, man!” someone shouts from the train.

  Squealing tires and flashing red and blue lights flare. A man in uniform speeds up the slope, stumbling over himself.

  There’s another shriek as the front of the train rams into Jaxon’s body. He looks like a lifeless dummy upon impact, but then gets sucked under the wheels. Blood sprays into the night, meaty chunks and scraps of clothing flying. His greatest fear was to witness someone mangled by his train while he was on duty, but he could never have imagined this. I bet no one ever gets it completely right. Even those who have that final intuition about how they’re going to go. I wonder if all the answers to life’s mysteries are on the other side.

  Now that you know there’s something to see, I warn you against dragging your friends to the trestle. There are more ways to feel alive than putting yourself in harm’s way. Because you won’t ever get any proof. You see, when the waitress takes the cop to the Goatman’s lair and then looks for the tape, none of it will be there. No one will ever understand what happens at the Louisville Loop—that is, except you and me. And maybe the victims yet to meet their demise.

  About the author:

  Theresa Braun was born in St. Paul, Minnesota and has carried some of that hardiness with her to South Florida where she currently resides. Ghost hunting and traveling are two of her passions, often drawing her to haunted castles in faraway lands. She writes all things dark, and her short fiction can be found in The Horror Zine and in Schlock! Webzine, among others. An upcoming piece is set to appear in Unnerving Magazine's collection of heartbreaking tales, entitled Hardened Hearts.

  Follow her on Twitter (@tbraun_author) or visit www.theresabraun.com.

  The Murder of Crows

  S.J. Budd

  “Where can I take you, my lovely?” the taxi driver asked as the young lady unwittingly got into the back of his dark unregistered taxi on one of the dirty streets of London.

  She had taken him completely by surprise. On the last three nights when he had done this, it took Barry hours to find the right one. This woman had just gotten right on in with no hesitation.

  “Drive,” she commanded in a tone that was always obeyed before taking out a silver compact mirror and applying lipstick.

  Barry looked around before he sped off, eager to leave the busy streets for somewhere quiet and deserted where he wouldn’t be disturbed.

  “Of course.” He giggled as he tried and failed to get a sly glimpse at the girl in his rear view mirror. “But where do you want to go, darling?”

  “Take me where you took the others,” she replied casually.

  “The others?” He felt hot panic rising in his throat, his hands slippery against the wheel.

  “Yes, now’s not the time to play the innocent,” she warned. He turned once more to get a look at her, but all he could see apart from two bright eyes was a shroud of darkness.

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” she called out. “We don’t want any accidents.”

  The rest of the journey was absolutely silent. He watched the way ahead while she watched him. He couldn’t see her, but somehow he could feel her gaze on the back of his neck, sizing him up, while the evil manifested inside of him.

  All he thought about now was getting home in one piece and crawling into bed next to his wife. A few hours ago, that seemed a terrifying prospect since lately she had grown so cold towards him. Each time he climbed in bed after a night shift, he could feel the iciness of her heart creep towards him, but now he craved its familiarity and routine.

  “Is this the place?” She leaned as he pulled over into an empty building site b
y the Thames River.

  Barry breathed in her cinnamon perfume.

  “Are you the police?” He took out a handkerchief with his clumsy hands and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.

  She grinned at him like he was a small child asking an impossibly big question. “I guess I am, but I don’t carry a badge with me.”

  Barry sat in his car, weighing his options while the young woman simply opened the door and got out, inspecting the darkness around her. Having grown careless, he had forgotten to lock her door.

  Barry had to get back to his wife. His left hand unclipped the glove compartment and felt for the wiry length of fishing line. After wrapping the ends around both his hands, he slowly got out of the car, noting he would have to be quick with this one.

  She kept her back to him, looking out to the river as he stealthily approached with raised hands. Once he reached her, he brought them down with severe force around her thin neck and pulled hard until the wire was taut and his hands bled.

  Unlike the others before her, she made no attempt to fight back. She did not even call out or stumble backwards with the force. That last bit was what usually finished them off; they’d lose their footing and virtually strangle themselves.

  But she was different. Her flesh did not cut where it was supposed to. The texture felt like skin, but yet it did not behave like it. He realized that she would not be his fourth victim. Exhausted, he let go, falling back against the taxi. He felt death’s close proximity that night, and this time it was coming for him.

  “So, that’s how you do it?” she asked.

  Breathless, Barry nodded. His hands went to his face, and he wept for the first time in twenty-five years. It felt glorious to shed his layers of pain, making him feel ten years younger.

  “I don’t know why I do it. I’m a monster. I can’t stop myself.”