by Mr. Deadman
“What the hell was that thing?” Willie pressed a cold can to his chest.
“What do you think it was? A damn deer.” Gary killed the engine.
“I don’t know. That didn’t look like no deer to me.”
“It’s a fucking deer.” Gary jumped out. A root had stabbed into the thick rubber and punctured the tire like a balloon. “Fuck me, man. These were new.”
Willie ran around and hunched forward with a flashlight. His gut bulged out from the waistline of his dirty jeans. His boots dug in the mud as he squatted low. “You probably should’ve been payin’ attention, instead of talkin’ about my momma.”
“Well, thank God you’re here to remind me!”
“You don't have to get so angry. I was just tryin’ to be helpful, man.” Like the hole on the tire, Willie’s mouth was wide open. He’d always been something of a mouth breather.
“I'm sorry, man. It's just that sometimes I feel like I get away from my wife to spend time with my other wife." Gary grabbed Willie's shoulder. "And that's no good, man.”
“You see me as another wife? That's the nicest thing you've said to me.” A smile grew across Willie's face. His arms wrapped around Gary, his hand pushing Gary’s head against his chest.
“That wasn't a compliment, you know.” Gary pushed Willie away.
“You want me to go get the spare?” asked Willie.
“Nah, man. We came here to do some fishin'. Let's do some damn fishin'. We'll take care of this in the mornin'.”
***
Watching the bobber drift to the current, Gary lounged in a cheap folding chair near the muddy bank. The soft glow of a pale moon shimmered across the ripples of an otherwise dark lake. Frogs croaked. Crickets chirped, and an earthy scent clung to a cool breeze. Gary smiled and glanced at Willie. “I heard Nixon is pullin’ out of Nam.”
After crushing a can, Willie tossed it. “We oughta be grateful that neither one of us got the draft.”
“Yeah, we’re lucky.” Rubbing his chin, Gary slumped forward in his chair.
“You know, I worry about that shit each and every time I check the mail.”
“Same here.” Gary flipped open the ice chest between him and Willie.
Willie held out a hand for his next round. “I'm just glad you came out here with me. I couldn't do this without you.”
“Willie, you're a grown ass man, weighin’ close to like three-hundred pounds. You shouldn't be afraid of nobody.” Gary placed a cold can in his buddy's hand.
“I don't know, man. You ever wonder if, like, we saw Big Foot?” asked Willie, just before taking that first crisp sip.
“Man, there ain't no Big Foot,” said Gary.
“You don't believe in monsters?”
“Look, there's only one monster here in Texas. Only one monster that Texans fear, anyway, and that's a liberal.” Gary laughed at his own joke. Although Willie shared a laugh for solidarity, his demeanor stiffened quickly.
“What about the Goatman?” Willie’s eyes locked onto Gary. “You know, they also call him the Lake Worth Monster around these parts.”
“Willie, we've been here how many times, and we've never, not once, not ever, seen a damn Man Goat.” Gary’s words slung like mud—mud that got into Willie's beer.
“Hey, it's Goat Man. Get it right. We don't want to disrespect it in case it can hear us.” Chuckling nervously, Willie put his finger to his head like a horn.
“Nah, man. It's all a bunch of bull,” said Gary.
“They've got photo evidence, man. And, a police report. You’re tellin’ me you don’t believe? It’s even in the paper!”
“Willie, just because you read it don’t mean it’s real. Them scientists want you to believe because they try to sell fear.”
“It ain’t scientists. A couple ran into something out here with like goat legs and a lizard body.”
Gary laughed.
“It’s true, man. They were attacked. That this thing just came out of nowhere and started throwin’ tires at ‘em.”
“Well, then where’s he at? I could use a free tire.” Gary stood up and shouted, “Hey, man-goat, get your ass over here. I hear you give out tires!”
“Don’t do that,” barked Willie.
Gary plopped down in the chair and fetched another beer.
“What about that thing we saw on the road?” Willie adjusted his hat.
“The deer?”
“I gotta tell you somethin’. It's gonna sound weird, I know. But, that time I fell in this here lake wasn't no accident. I swear on my mother's grave. Somethin’ grabbed me.” Willie’s eyes were ice cold. The chair collapsed from the strain of Willie's fat ass, and he plopped into the mud.
“Whatever, man.” Gary laughed as he got up and adjusted his pants. “Look, I gotta take a piss. When I get back, I don't wanna hear nothin' 'bout this man goat shit, alright.”
Gary walked behind a tree. Assured Willie wasn't trying to sneak a peek, he unzipped, let it hang, and waited for it to drain. The air was chilly and quiet, like a morgue, the sort of quiet that puts a keen emphasis on every sound, no matter how insignificant. Rustling leaves put a pause on his piss, shriveling his pecker. The lingering eerie silence gnawed at his nerves. He scanned the darkness for the source. Moonlight filtered through the trees and enveloped everything in a cascade of shade and shadow.
Gary was determined to find the source while standing in the comfort of marked territory.
A twig snapped, and Gary yanked up his fly so fast he almost nipped the skin off his dick. He thanked the almighty Lord for sparing his manhood, not just his junk, but the fact this moment of panic happened without Willie being the wiser.
“Hey, man, we get anythin’ yet?” Gary sat down in his chair, grabbing another beer from the ice chest. His fishing pole was gone, so he carried the ice cold Shlitz with him, searching the dark waters for a sign of it.
“Willie, please tell me you tried to catch the son-of-a-bitch that stole my pole.” Gary shined a flashlight out on the water. It sliced through the darkness, catching nothing but a reflection.
“What's wrong? Cat got your tongue or somethin’?” Gary glanced over his shoulder. The shattered remains of Willie's broken chair lay on the mud, but the fat bastard that broke it was gone.
“C'mon, man, don't tell me this is about that man-goat thing. I was only kiddin’.” Gary assessed the area and noticed drag marks in the mud leading towards some trees. He shook his head and struggled to imagine someone or something hauling Willie away without passing out from exhaustion.
“Willie, stop playin’ around.” Gary followed the trail to some trees. “This ain't funny, man. You can't just be tellin' monster stories and disappear. It ain't right.” Advancing towards a pocket of darkness, Gary stopped at the sight of two small, glowing points of light. He knew they were eyes, but eyes like he had never seen before. These illuminating red orbs pierced through him, as if to search his very soul.
With trembling hands, Gary dared to cast light on the creature, but it refracted into the darkness near its face. Not sure what he saw, Gary stepped away.
“There ain't no monsters.” Gary consoled himself with a sip.
The engine of his Ford fired up and roared. Gary dropped his beer.
“Willie!” He could hear the mechanical churn get louder, but the cab was vacant.
Fearing the worst, rushed to the truck and Gary yanked on the passenger door. A slew of crushed cans spilled forth and pooled at his feet. Muddy prints and blood splatter decorated the interior. Gary tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
“Willie!” yelled Gary.
His Winchester was gone from under the seat. The driver's side had broken glass, boot prints, and droplets of blood.
Gary reached for his keys, but paused for a moment. Whatever it was that may or may not have killed Willie, was out there, and he may not be able to do a damn thing about it. He could flee, sure. And die in the process like a damn coward. Knowing what he had to do, Gary killed
the engine and pocketed the keys. He went to the bed of the truck to fetch his toolbox, retrieving an old rusty hammer.
The boot prints went away from the truck, but then stopped, seemingly to glance back at it. There was an indentation on the vehicle’s roof. No blood splatter. Whatever it was had Willie spooked. Gary tracked the prints for a few feet, then heard the crack of a twelve gauge, his twelve gauge, somewhere near the lake.
***
“Willie!” Gary yelled as he wheeled around several trees. “Hang on. I'm comin'.”
Brushing through some branches, he thought he was getting closer, but it did not take long for doubt to eat his confidence. He made it to the bank of the lake only to find himself alone.
Gary waited, not sure why. The flashlight cut through the night, up and down the edge of the lake, but Willie was nowhere to be seen. A faint gleam caught his eye, beckoning Gary to get closer to the lake’s edge. To his surprise, he found his Winchester poking from the water, as if reaching out for his hand. He reached forward, but his fingertips were two inches too short.
Gary's feet sank into a layer of mud like a bowling ball in shit. Kneeling into the chilled darkness, he dropped the hammer and wrapped his hands around the barrel of his shotgun.
“Gary?” Willie splashed, flailing around like a drowning ape.
“Willie! You alright?” Gary called.
The look of panic on Willie's face rattled Gary's nerves. He pulled his gun from the mud.
“Take my hand, man!” Gary reached for his chubby friend, as he waded closer with desperation. But Willie splashed and kicked, yet wasn't moving. Something had him. Something beneath the water. And just like that, Willie was pulled under. Gary raised his gun and lined his eyes down the sights.
The dark liquid rippled and bubbles rose to the surface, but he couldn’t hear him scream. Gary tapped his index finger against the side of the trigger and waited. Another ripple. Something dark emerged from the water. Something big. Something that would give the devil nightmares, but it ducked back into the water. Gary took a chance and fired.
Silence.
Gary fired again, and again, emptying the chamber of his Winchester at the thing beneath the water. The lake turned crimson and a body floated to the surface. A fat, bloated carcass, barely recognizable. Gary shined a light. His heart sank into his chest. His skin turned white. A grave sickness grew from his core as his knees buckled.
“Willie!” Tossing his gun aside, Gary ran further into the lake. He waded towards the body, a mound of bloody hamburger on its chest. Chunks of brain and splintered bone poked out from a shattered face. A single dead eye looked straight up at the sky.
“Oh, Jesus!” Gary grabbed the corpse and pulled it towards the shore. The legs were intact. His jeans soaked, but otherwise unscathed. No teeth marks. No penetration. His feet were still intact. His boots were still on. The monster had him, yet Willie’s remains told a different story.
Gary collapsed onto the moist soil. His body shook. His fingers trembled. His skin went cold. His hands gripped his face. Fingers pressed against his skull. Nails dug into his skin. He did not kill his friend. He did not murder his childhood friend. How could this happen? How could God let this happen?
How would he ever explain this to his Willie’s mother? How would he ever be able to break the news to her? He was no murderer. It was the monster. It was the Goat Man or Man Goat, whatever Willie called it. That’s what did this. That’s what killed his friend. Because he ain’t no monster.
About the author:
Mr. Deadman dwells in the underworld, living amongst only the best and greatest of celebrities, dictators, and serial killers. He is somewhat of a health nut and partakes in a healthy lifestyle of booze, cigars, and hookers.
Mr. Deadman is rumored to be an associate of, or perhaps even be, Jesse Dedman. It is easy to confuse the connection between Jesse Dedman and Mr. Deadman, since some drunk on YouTube (Jesse Dedman) claims to be the man responsible for the horror zine. The connection becomes even more suspicious when Mr. Deadman has been outed for giving Jesse Dedman ideas and inspiration for The Bleeder series, The Master's Torment, and The Cradle of Ruin—all of which are available on Amazon.
Never Sleep Again
Calvin Demmer
Reginald Barton sat on the edge of the dresser. Though it was against protocol, he felt if he didn’t support his weight he would collapse. Two drawers had been pulled out, and bloodstained clothes littered the floor at his feet. Streaks of sweat ran down his pallid face. His stomach rumbled as it hung over his belt.
This is not a dream, he thought.
“You okay? You don’t look so good.” Detective Andrew Washburn walked over to the dresser when he got no response. “Is it the same?”
Reginald remained silent, but his gaze drifted toward the bed in the middle of the room, then back to Andrew. His mind churned like a beat-up washing machine. He could hear the heavy clanks as he tried to sort through his memories. The morning light made him miserable, especially considering he’d only gotten to bed around two a.m. He’d spent the previous night putting an R-and-R soldier-like dent into a bottle of whiskey.
Andrew corrected his pale yellow tie, which dangled over an ironed blue shirt.
Reginald knew Andrew looked the antithesis of himself with his cropped hazelnut hair, neatly combed; Reginald’s own gray hair thinned by the day. Andrew sported a healthy tan; he was pale with patches of pink and was Andrew’s senior by thirty years and looked it. Gone were the days that Reginald looked like a reputable detective. He resembled an ancient janitor now.
Reginald looked back to the bed. The scene made him just as miserable as the realizations regarding his own appearance. Two mutilated bodies lay on the floor next to the queen-sized bed; they were Mister and Missus Cable. The first thing that stood out was that they had no hands or feet.
“Yeah,” Reginald muttered.
“What’s that?”
“It’s the same.”
Silence reigned as both men tried to comprehend the gruesome view. The seconds stretched, and Reginald couldn’t resist humming a tune beneath his breath.
“Is this crime inspiring your musical juices?” Andrew asked.
Softly, Reginald began to sing the same rhyme he’d been humming. “Lie safe, lie still, beneath the covers, away from the edge of the bed. Hands and feet safely tucked, or would you rather wake up dead?”
“Well, that’s creepy.”
“It’s loosely translated from an old children’s rhyme. Eastern European in origin.” Reginald licked his cracked bottom lip. “You never had the fear of something grabbing your hand or foot if it hung over the side of the bed?”
“No.”
Reginald nodded and walked over to the bed. He kneeled, reached under, and swept back some dirt. “See that?” He pointed to the little heap he’d made. “It’s the same every time. The thing is covered in dirt. It always leaves a mess.”
“Whoa, easy,” Andrew said, raising his hands like a traffic cop indicating an oncoming vehicle should stop. “I never said I believed all that. We brought you down here so you could confirm any resemblance to all those killings fourteen years ago.”
“You read my old reports?”
“Yeah, I looked over them. Look, Reginald. We believe it’s a serial killer. He’s been dormant for a while, maybe ’cause you guys put some heat on him back then, but we think he’s back. Or it could be a copycat.”
“It’s no serial killer. I caught—”
“You caught a glimpse of it, or ‘one of them’ as you put it. Yeah, I read that. Vague description, though.”
“It all happened so fast.”
“Listen.” Andrew took a step toward Reginald and patted his shoulder. “Chief Johnson brought you in. You’re retired, and we know how things ended last time. If at any point you want to step away, I’ll explain it to Johnson.”
Reginald didn’t reply. He continued to examine the scene. In his mind’s eye, he viewed how the kil
lings may have unfolded.
“I’m going to make a call. Shout if you need me,” Andrew said.
Reginald nodded, watching Andrew leave the room. He reached into his tattered brown bomber jacket and opened the little flask that had been sheltered within one of its interior pockets. He took a swig. Vodka was less harsh on the breath, or so he’d been told—not that he cared at the moment.
***
A week later, Reginald entered another horrific crime scene. Three people in their early twenties, two males and one female, lay dismembered on the living room floor. On the coffee table was a half-finished board game, which Reginald couldn’t resist investigating.
He took a step back and scanned the scene. “Lie safe, lie still, beneath—”
“Give that a break, will you.” Andrew entered from the gray shadows of the kitchen. “Plus, it seems your story has a hole. Their hands and feet are all gone, and there is dirt, but this is the living area—not a bedroom.” Andrew walked over to one of the curtains, looked outside, and returned his gaze to Reginald. “No signs of a break-in.”
Reginald nodded and pointed.
Andrew followed but saw nothing. “What?”
“It’s a futon.”
“So? Don’t tell me that can bend the rules for your monster.” Andrew chuckled.
“In a way, it does,” Reginald said, walking over to the crimson-stained beige futon with a white-and-blue comforter piled on top. He kneeled down, put his hand beneath the futon, and swept back the dirt.
“You have to stop that. We need the forensics to run analysis.” Andrew scratched the back of his neck. “Also, I spoke to Johnson. He’s upset. Two years from retirement and the maniac you two tried to catch pops up again. I think he wished the killer had already met his mortal end. He doesn’t think it’s a copycat. Me? I’m keeping all options on the table.”
“Will he be coming around?”
