Horror Library, Volume 4

by Bentley Little

  "I think I'm gonna stay here and get some more footage."

  "Whatever, Jesus freak. Call me later, dude." Mitch said, then headed back to the car they had parked a few blocks away.

  Rob waved the next group in line forward, then stepped back a little to give them some space, filming the whole time. The three old ladies didn't seem to notice him as they added to the pile of offerings against the wall and fell to their knees.

  Rob was kneeling as well as he zoomed in on the women, panning from their feet and up over their hunched backs to the stain on the wall. He began to pan toward the shrine but doubled back to the stain. He was sure that he'd seen a pair of eyes open where the woman's face would be.

  He focused again on the stain for a moment until he shrugged it off as his colorful imagination working and turned the camera back to the shrine.

  He zoomed in to capture some detail of the gifts and felt drawn to the one-armed doll. He wondered if the little girl missed her doll or had already forgotten about it.

  "It'd be nice if they can forget, wouldn't it?" a booming voice said behind his ear.

  Rob jumped to his feet, almost dropping his camera, and spun around. There was no one within 10 feet. He looked at the nearest person in the crowd, a bald man who was praying the Rosary.

  "Did you say something?" Rob asked.

  Annoyed at the interruption, the man shook his head, then returned his gaze to the wall.

  Rob stepped around the group at the wall and resumed filming over their shoulders, zooming in on the stain.

  This time there was no mistaking it. The eyes were open. And staring at him.

  He lowered his camera and looked around, convinced Mitch was somehow playing a joke on him. He moved a few steps closer and stared at the stain with his naked eye and saw nothing staring back. He raised his camera and zoomed in.

  Again, her face was alive. Soft and feminine and bathed in yellow light. Her open eyes followed him. Then she spoke.

  "Your case will be heard tonight, Rob Tanziger. Be here at 3 a.m." she said, again in a deep, gravelly voice that reminded Rob of his drill sergeant.

  He lowered his camera again and stared at the wall. Still nothing but a dark stain. But he heard the voice again, this time as if he were thinking it.

  "Don't make us come find you."

  Rob backed up, quickly making his way to the sidewalk, staring dumbfounded at the wall the whole time. OK, he thought, that didn't just happen. You didn't just get threatened by a fucking stain on a fucking wall that looks like the fucking Virgin Mary. Maybe you should call the counselor tomorrow. Maybe you need to talk about what happened over there in the desert.

  "Watch it, man!"

  The man he ran into was solid as a wall. Rob groped around for his camera, then picked himself up.

  "Sorry buddy, my bad," he said, gazing up at the tall, chiseled black man in front of him.

  "You heard it too, didn't you?"

  "Heard what?" Rob said. "What are you talking about?"

  "She spoke to you too, didn't she? I can tell the way you're high-tailing it out of here."

  "I don't know what you mean. Excuse me," Rob said, scurrying around the man and heading toward the bus stop.

  "She said something about 'a case', didn't she?" the man said, his voice cracking. "What does she want? How does she know?"

  For once in Rob's life, the Fullerton bus came just when he needed it. He boarded, took a seat, and gazed back at the man, who had his face in his hands and was weeping on the sidewalk. He seemed much smaller now.

  ***

  Rob got off the bus at California and headed home, jogging at first, then sprinting the five blocks to his studio apartment, passing by the El Ranchero, where he usually stopped for a burrito.

  He tossed his backpack and keys on the kitchen table, then headed toward his desk, fumbling the video camera out of its case.

  "Watch out, Cletus," he said.

  The 14-year-old cat held its ground, pretending not to hear until Rob put the camera bag down on its tail. Cletus gave him a dirty look before hopping to the floor in search of another cool spot to sleep.

  Rob took the disk from his camera and began downloading it to his computer.

  He grabbed a beer from the fridge, and noticed his hands shaking as he opened the bottle. Harry Carey shouted "Cubs win!" and it startled him. The voice was coming from the bottle opener his little sister had given him a few years ago, despite knowing he was a Sox fan.

  He took two large swigs and settled down in front of the computer.

  He watched as the scene he had witnessed earlier played back. The devoted followers. The gifts at the makeshift shrine. His lens focused lovingly on the one-armed doll. The footage was beautiful, he thought. Surely he could get an A on this project.

  Especially if he caught the stain coming to life on film. But that didn't really happen, did it? And to his relief, there was nothing on the tape. No eyes opening. No Virgin Mary speaking to him. Just a dark stain on a freeway underpass wall that if you tried hard enough, you could see anything you wanted to in it. He'd done it plenty of times with little puffy clouds on clear days.

  OK, then you imagined it. Call Dr. Hammond on Monday and get your appointment moved up.

  He'd almost convinced himself it never happened when he remembered the chiseled black man he'd smacked into. He knew he hadn't imagined that guy. The bruised shoulder he could feel beginning to throb was proof of that.

  There was only one thing to do. He packed some fresh batteries into his bag and slid a fresh disk into his camera, then laid down for a nap. It was going to be a late night.

  ***

  His dreams were vivid and intense, and, as usual, made little sense. He could see the one-armed doll, its eyes open, its mouth moving, but nothing coming out. He saw Cletus standing on two feet opening the fridge and asking Rob where his food was. He saw his sister crying and running from him when he tried to talk to her. Like she was scared of him.

  Then he was back in Iraq. This part of the dream made sense. This part was always too real. The Humvee exploding in front of him, one of the doors tumbling to a stop near his feet. His eyes burning from the brightness and the heat of the noxious flames. Pulling his buddies out of the wreckage, one by one. Two already dead and his friend, Ryan, on fire, his skin smoldering as he rolled in the dirt. . .

  "It's almost time. You should prepare your defense."

  The voice jolted him awake and Rob jumped from the couch, his sweaty chest still heavy from the nightmare. He scanned the room, not realizing he was still clutching a pillow. Cletus stirred at the foot of the sofa, looked up at Rob, then closed his eyes again. There was nobody else there.

  It was just part of the dream. Relax, he told himself. The clock showed 2:15 a.m. He'd hoped to head out much earlier. He cursed himself for not setting an alarm, put on his t-shirt and shoes, grabbed his camera and dashed out the door.

  At least he was able to catch the last bus. He settled in for the 15-minute ride. He had the bus to himself, except for the homeless guy who got on at California and headed to the back row for a nap, his pungent odor eating at Rob's nostrils as he passed.

  The bus approached the underpass. Rob pulled the cord and headed to the back door. He looked over at the homeless guy, who opened his eyes as the lights above the door turned green.

  "Good luck," the man said before rolling over to go back to sleep.

  "What did you say?" Rob asked, hesitating at the bottom step. The man ignored him. Rob could hear him snoring already.

  "Let's go, in or out?" the driver shouted. Rob stepped down, the doors creaking shut behind him.

  After the bus passed he could see the shrine across the street, bathed in a soft glow from the candles people left behind. The crowds were gone, but Rob could make out one lone figure kneeling at the wall.

  He approached quietly, not wanting to interrupt someone in mid-prayer, though he questioned why someone would be coming out in the middle of the night to pr
ay to a stain on a wall, even if they were convinced it was the Virgin Mary. As he got closer, he realized that it was the large black man he'd run into the morning before.

  The man was not praying, just whimpering.

  "Please stop. I'm sorry. Please stop. I'm sorry," he said over and over, staring at the stain.

  Rob thought about leaving. He had lived in the city long enough to know that it was not smart to engage crazy people on the street, particularly late at night. But he felt a need to help, so he eased up beside the man, who turned and looked at him, wild-eyed.

  "Help me. . .I can't stop. Help me," he whispered.

  Rob looked down and noticed the blood pooling around the man's knees and a pile of what looked like strips of old leather.

  He followed the trail of blood up to the man's hands. He was holding a knife in his right hand and was cutting into his left arm, working the blade down from his elbow to his fingers, like he was peeling a potato. Most of his arm and hand was a pulpy mess, his fingers stripped to the bone.

  "Please help me," the man begged.

  "Jesus Christ, man, what the fuck!" Rob cried, then instinctively grabbed for the man's shoulder and elbow, hoping he could grip them hard enough to make him drop the blade.

  But the man turned and slashed at Rob instead, getting off three quick swings, the first of which sliced through Rob's right forearm, though not too deeply. Rob backed off.

  "Dude, you asked me to help you."

  "I'm sorry. . .it's not me. It's not me. . ." the man cried, still slashing the blade in Rob's direction.

  Rob grabbed his camera bag, figuring he could use it to deflect the knife while he tried to get hold of the man, but then another voice spoke.

  "Do not interfere. His sentence is being carried out."

  Rob turned to the wall, and it suddenly lit like a movie screen. The dingy highway underpass, stain and all, disappeared as the wall gave off a blinding, golden hue. Centered on the screen was a large, robed figure that looked part man and part. . .something else. It was large enough to fill most of the height of the screen, and had long, flowing hair with thick strands, each moving independently, like wriggling worms. It gazed down at Rob.

  "Your trial will begin once we've completed with him."

  "Who the fuck are you? What do you want?" Rob asked, fumbling to get his camera out of his bag, hoping to capture this on film.

  He did not answer. His face changed as the moments passed. He was an old man with a beard and mustache, then a young black woman, then the Virgin Mary again. The face morphed every few seconds, but the eyes, glowing with hatred and anger, never changed.

  "What do you want from me?" Rob asked, stepping back and turning his camera on.

  He looked though the lens, but this time all he could see was the same, dingy old wall. He lowered the camera and looked up into the light, shielding his eyes with one hand.

  "You are accused of grave sins and you must be tried before this court and the throne of the Lord!" the thing shouted.

  Behind the creature, a primitive courtroom scene unfolded on the wall. There was a witness stand on one side, next to a large, ornate throne in the middle facing the street. Both sat empty.

  There was one row after another of wooden benches, filled with spectators turning to their right to watch. Some appeared human, some had wings. . .some had horns. All were focused on the man who knelt on the ground, flaying away at what was left of his arm. They cheered each time a strip of flesh fell to the ground.

  The man, having done all he could do to his arm, took off his shoe with his good hand and started rolling his pant leg up, his face contorted in agony.

  Rob turned his camera off and backed away slowly. Then he started to run.

  "You cannot hide!" he heard behind him as he sprinted down the street, his heart pounding in his throat.

  He didn't stop for several blocks, until he was too tired to continue. He realized he didn't even know where he was going. He rested, his hands on his knees as he struggled to regain his breath and orient himself. He took out his cell phone and called Mitch, hoping he was still awake.

  By the fifth ring, Mitch picked up, annoyed.

  "Dude, this better be important. I've got company."

  Rob realized he had no idea what to say. All he could do was cry into the phone.

  "Hey bud, what's goin on? Calm down," Mitch said.

  "I think I'm losing my shit, man. I think I'm going crazy," Rob stammered.

  "Okay, bro. Settle down. Where are you?"

  "I'm not sure. I went the wrong way home," Rob said, looking around for a visual clue. "That looks like the Logan Square monument up there. I'm near Kedzie."

  "OK, can you make it over here? We'll talk it out and you can stay here. We'll call the doctor in the morning."

  "Yeah the Blue Line is right over there," he said, his voice calmer. Mitch always had that effect on him. "Can you meet me at the station?"

  "Of course. I'll see you in a few, bro. It's going to be fine, Okay?"

  "Okay. See you there."

  He hung up and took a moment to calm himself. He hit rewind on his camera, his hands still shaking, and then hit play. There was still nothing on the wall. Just the same dark stain. In the background, he could hear the man crying as he cut himself.

  Rob turned the power button off and headed toward the train station.

  Rob walked in, swiped his transit card at the turnstile, then walked down the stairs to the train platform. Despite the hour, there were plenty of late-night revelers still out.

  He passed a group of men and women in their early twenties, all with either tattoos or lip piercings, some with both. They stared at him indifferently as he passed.

  In the middle of the platform, a skinny, long-haired man was playing Hotel California on his guitar, and doing a fairly decent job of it. Next to him, a Hispanic man sang along with him, pumping his fist as they harmonized about not being able to "kill the beast". The singer didn't seem to mind the stranger intruding on his performance. In front of them, a guitar case sat open with a few dollars and a couple dozen coins scattered inside.

  Rob opened his cell phone as he passed them to check the time: 2:59. He began to check to see if he had any messages when the screen went blank. A familiar golden light began to shine from it, then a face appeared. It was the thing from the wall.

  "You cannot hide from us. Your trial begins now," the image announced in a grave tone.

  Rob snapped the phone shut and threw it to the ground. It bounced and skidded toward the group of teens nearby. They turned and looked after it hit a tall boy's shoe. The kid picked it up and tossed it back to him, and Rob caught it.

  "Sorry about that," Rob said, then hurried farther down the platform, stuffing the phone into his pocket.

  The phone rang.

  Impossible! There was no cell service down here. He took the device from his pocket, opened it, and the golden light glared out at him. He tossed the phone into a nearby garbage can then continued down the platform.

  "Enough!" a voice boomed. Rob stopped in his tracks. The wall off his right shoulder lit up and the impossible scene from the underpass appeared. The creature emerged from the bottom of the wall, its wriggling hair crawling around its ever-changing face, and soon rose a good 12 feet above the rest of the courtroom spectators, who were staring to their left at the witness stand, where a young girl no more than 5 years old sat next to the still-empty throne. She appeared to be of Arabic assent, and by her headdress and blouse, maybe Iraqi. She sat nervously, eyes down, clutching a one-armed doll in one hand.

  "Your trial begins now," the thing said again before turning its attention to the girl. "Of what doth the witness accuse this man?"

  The girl looked up. Her eyes turned vacant and she slumped forward in her seat without saying a word. Another screen appeared above her and a scene began to unfold.

  It showed the inside of a small, modest house. There were eight people in the room, four adults, three teenager
s and a little girl. It was a tranquil scene of a family going about their daily life. Then a door was kicked open, breaching the silence and awakening Rob's memory.

  Three U.S. soldiers entered the dwelling, shouting orders and pointing guns. The women and children in the house were screaming. A young man who Rob guessed was the little girl's father turned to run upstairs, but one of the soldiers opened fire, cutting him down from behind. The women and children went into hysterics.

  "Sit down! Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!" one of the soldiers screamed and Rob shuddered as he recognized that soldier. It was him.

  The soldiers corralled the rest of the family, dragging them into the center of the living room and shoving them to their knees. The elderly woman fell to the ground hard and a soldier yanked her back up by her hair.

  "Who did it? Who set up that bomb? Tell us!" a soldier yelled. Rob recognized him as his friend, Lieutenant Anderson.

  In broken English, the old man said, "It was not us. We are no fighters."

  "He's lying, man. It was one of them. It's right in front of their house for Christ's sake!" the other soldier said. Rob couldn't remember his name, and in fact it was their first time out together. "You heard that witnesses out there. He saw someone run inside just before it went off. What else do you want?"

  "Just do him, man. Those are your friends all charcoaled out there," the soldier urged.

  Anderson hesitated, then took the butt of his rifle and cracked it into the old man's nose. His frail face caved in on impact and he slumped to the floor. Anderson delivered two more blows to the man's head.

  The women and children screamed louder. Anderson moved over to the only remaining male, a young teen, maybe 15 or so.

  "Was it you, you little fucker?"

  "Come on man, he's just a kid," Rob saw himself say.

  "That don't mean shit, man," the other soldier retorted. "I seen children and women blow themselves up just to take a few of us out. You can't trust any of em!"

  "He's right. We gotta do 'em all. It could have been any of them. I ain't doin' this myself. You gotta help me," Anderson said, staring at Rob.