Horror Library, Volume 4

by Bentley Little

  After a moment, Rob nodded his approval.

  The soldiers moved behind the family, who sat cowering and crying on the floor.

  Anderson looked at Rob.

  "You ready?"

  "No."

  "Enough talk. Just do it!" the other soldier boomed, and Rob now recognized the voice. He had not heard it before that day and had not heard it again until today. It was the thing from the wall. Its eyes brimmed with hate.

  Rob watched as he and Anderson pumped the family full of bullets, except for the girl, who was shrieking now.

  "You gotta shut her up, man. Do her too," the other soldier urged him.

  Anderson started to point his gun at her, but Rob pushed it away.

  "We're done here," he said. "Let's check out the house next door."

  The soldiers made their way out the front door. Rob stopped and looked back, making eye contact with the girl. Watching it now, he recalled hoping that she would be able to forget what she saw.

  The door closed but the scene still played behind the little girl on the stand.

  She ran up to her mother, whose face was frozen in a mask of horror. The girl prodded her, but realizing her mother wasn't asleep, slumped to the ground and started screaming again. The sound was drowned out by the gunshots next door.

  Then the screen faded to black and the girl on the stand suddenly awoke. The creature and the spectators turned to face Rob.

  "How do we find the defendant?"

  "Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!" the crowd shouted.

  "What should be the sentence?"

  Rob snapped out of his trance and ran down the platform before they answered.

  "Help me please. Help me!" he shouted to the other riders, who either stared at him or looked down at their shoes. It dawned on him that he now seemed like the crazy person that people should not engage in the middle of the night.

  He slowed down and looked back. The spectators on the wall were still watching and shouting "Death!" but the people waiting for the train seemed oblivious.

  Then he started running again, but he lost control of his motor functions, and his body turned back in the direction of the courtroom scene. He was running full speed down the platform, his legs churning forward despite his brain's orders to go the other way.

  He heard a train approaching at the far end and saw its light appear in the tunnel. Passengers closed their books and gathered their belongings, some moving out of the way as Rob ran past.

  He was picking up speed and was on a collision course with the train. The wall was dead ahead, and as he looked up, he could see the creature, its arms outstretched and its head turned skyward as it roared, the jury around it cheering. It looked down and locked eyes with Rob, as it morphed back into the Virgin Mary, its wild hair suddenly covered in white linen. It clasped its hands and bowed, as if in prayer, then grinned, two rows of sharp, black teeth stretching its mouth wide as its face began to morph again.

  The train grew louder, its headlight burning his eyes, and Rob reached the edge of the platform, now nearly airborne, save one step. He closed his eyes as he leapt onto the tracks.

  ***

  "What do you think it is?"

  The woman rubbed her hands over the stain on the desk, then turned to the man next to her and took a sip of her coffee.

  "I think it's exactly what it looks like."

  He let out a nervous laugh.

  "It does have some resemblance."

  "Some?"

  "OK, maybe more than a little bit."

  "Has he seen it yet?"

  "No, he hasn't been in yet, and it wasn't there last night."

  "Who found it?"

  "The lady from the cleaning service. She almost fainted. I don't know how we're going to keep her from telling people about it."

  "Maybe we should tell people about it. I mean. . .these have been showing up everywhere lately. This is proof, isn't it?"

  "Proof of what?"

  "That he was chosen for this job."

  "How do you think that would go over?"

  "Well, I. . .wait, here he comes."

  Footsteps and voices echoed outside the room. The door flung open and a man entered the room, trailed by a small entourage.

  The man and the woman by the desk straightened up. The woman hesitated, then covered the stain with a pile of folders left on the desk before turning to greet her boss.

  "Good morning, Mr. President."

  Jeff Cercone is an editor and writer whose fiction has appeared in The Late Late Show webzine. He was the editor of the now-defunct webzine, Down in the Cellar, which may come back to life some day.

  He lives in Chicago, where the actual Virgin Mary sighting that inspired this story still draws people to the highway underpass at Fullerton Avenue to leave their offerings. He hopes whatever it is has better intentions.

  —THE HEALING HANDS OF REVEREND WAINWRIGHT

  by Geoffrey L. Mudge

  Another night, another show, another chorus of cheers and applause and unbridled joy that we will never hear. In the darkness and silence, only the rumble of the diesel engine roaring to life lets us know our part has been played for the evening. This night's showcase was relatively slow and tame. The only serious injury to come from the affair was a dislocated shoulder suffered by the blind kid, Augie. The sickening sound, somewhere between a pop and a crunch as muscle and bone tore apart, still echoes in my mind. There's not much to listen to in here, and the few sounds that aren't screams tend to linger a little longer than they should. The only other noise is the wet, hacking cough coming from Juliana's corner. I think she may have contracted emphysema or TB, but she won't live long enough to be bothered much by whichever.

  However, experience, the harsh mistress that she is, has taught me that the good shows are tragedies in disguise. Having been here the longest, I've seen the patterns through a dozen of them. Through pure luck or divine intervention, I've survived longer than all those that were here when I joined. Most of the kids travelling with me now were picked up in Memphis and are generally unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the business. In my time with the Reverend I have found that slow nights are almost inevitably followed by horrendous ones. Those nights, the anguished cries reverberating in my skull make me long for the cavernous silence between one and another.

  Joseph, chained closest to the heavy door, thinks he heard talk of moving to Wichita. Isn't that peachy? Kansas. The heart of the Dust Bowl. The land of polio and starvation. A visit to the festering wound spewing the misery that has been slowly eating America's soul may not end well for some of us. Frankly, I expect some deaths before we finish, and there are so few of us left. When I came in, there were a couple dozen of us, but now there are only six, and we all know the carnivorous tumor in Ralph's brain will soon finish him.

  Though it's been quite awhile since we picked anyone up, I couldn't say just how long. Time is extremely subjective with no way to track night and day. The occasional feeding and the never ending shows are the only ways we have to measure the passage of time. In those terms, it's been twelve shows since Memphis, how long that is in normal people time, there's no way to know.

  To be honest, the anticipation is almost worse than the performance. Almost. It's just so damn hard to sit in the hot darkness, afraid to speak to the only people who could ever understand this ordeal. But what would we say to each other? Speak words of hope that ring false and hollow the moment they leave one's lips? Talk of escape when metal and leather and mal-nutrition make it impossible? No, there are no words left in any of us. All the pleadings and prayers are spent. There is nothing for us but the sweltering silence of this dark oven.

  And the show.

  The goddamn show, it must go on.

  ***

  The small fire spewed hot sparks and ash into the night sky as Abel hurled a fresh log into its embers.

  "Hey! Watch out, you stupid bastard!" Lot yelled, beans and pork juice dribbling down his chin. Abel replied only by hanging his he
ad and stumbling sullenly out of the weakening ring of light. Lot wiped his grimy mouth on his leather gloves. "Aw, hell," he muttered, "I guess I better go apologize to the big lout."

  "Leave him be, Lot. He'll find a pile of dirt or a dead animal and he'll forget all about it." Adam's soft but powerful voice drew a hushed burst of laughter from the small group of shabby-looking men.

  "Well, you're the boss," Lot sighed as he sat back down. "If you think he'll be ok, I'll get back to dinner."

  "He'll be fine. Now finish that grub up quick, boys. We got a lot of work in front of us and you know the Rev hates to get behind schedule." Adam inhaled a last mouthful of beans and tossed the can toward the newly invigorated fire. The rest of the tired men quickly did the same. After much groaning and consternation, they eventually began to shamble toward the heavily loaded trucks.

  "Where is the good Reverend this evening?" Jeremiah inquired as softly as he could without belying his utter dread of the holy man. "He didn't want to share in the vittles?"

  "My sincere apologies for not joining in the sumptuous feast this evening. I acquired other accommodations and dined alone in the confines of my trailer." The reverend's deep, haunting voice and soft southern drawl crawled through the cool, dusty night air from behind the group of men. "Although, I must admit that I am slightly miffed that my presence was not inquired into until after the 'vittles' were no more than memories and grease stains." The last few words oozed from Wainwright's lips like a foul sludge and sent chills through the spines of every man who heard.

  "Reverend! I. . .uh. . .that is. . .I mean. . ." Jeremiah tried to stammer some sort of coherent response, but as he turned to face the Reverend, their gazes locked and all his words seemed to slip away. Wainwright's eyes were all white with the exception of the pitch black pupils which pulsed and pinwheeled like a kaleidoscope. His direct stare was enough to make even the most resolute of men whimper, and Jeremiah involuntarily stumbled back a few steps.

  The Reverend smiled coldly at his flock of miscreants. "Come now, dear Jeremiah, I merely sought to have a little jest at your expense. I am, all joking aside, glad that you are all well fed and eager to move forward. There is still so much work to be done. So much work. How go the preparations? Can we expect the main edifice to be erected soon?"

  "The main edifice?" Adam interjected. "If you mean the big tent, we should have that thing up in a couple hours. As for the rest, Jeremiah here and Lot are gonna head to town at first light to start handin' out flyers. Me and the rest of the boys'll get the stage set up and Abel is gonna get the kids fed and cleaned up for the show."

  Wainwright scowled up at the uncaring moon. "Abel, you say? You are aware we have several little girls amongst our family of flagellants, correct? We have traveled far and seen much together, Adam, but I swear to all that is holy in this world, if that half-witted pedophile touches even one hair on their sacred heads, I will castrate you both with my bare hands!"

  Adam laughed nervously as he struck a match on his thick leather glove and carefully lit a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "Relax, Rev. Abel may be slow but even he isn't stupid enough to go after them girls." A casual glance passed amongst the huddle of men as the same shadow of doubt crossed each mind. Adam caught the look as it went around and sighed heavily. He dropped his smoke onto the hard earth. "Well, I gotta go, uhhh, check on some stuff. I'll be right back." Trying his best not to flat out sprint, Adam strode away from the group in the direction of the children's trailer.

  Wainwright watched him for a short moment before turning his withering gaze on the rest of the workers. "Well, gentlemen, let's get to it, shall we? I have preparations of my own which must be attended to." The Reverend turned petulantly and walked away, darkness wrapping his tall, gaunt frame until it disappeared.

  Jeremiah scooped the still smoldering cigarette butt from the ground and inhaled deeply. "This job gets a little more entertaining every day. What the hell does 'castrate' mean, anyway?" The men laughed nervously and made their way into the night, casting cautious glances over their shoulders for whatever demons might be following.

  ***

  "Step on up, ladies and gents, and God-fearing children of all ages! For today, the just and holy Reverend Wainwright will hear all your pleas and grant God's mercy to even the most wretched amongst you! A nickel gets you in and a dime gets you a seat! Don't be shy now, folks! Claim your ticket now. They will go fast, and you've travelled so far, I'd hate to see you stuck out here with me when the service begins!"

  Jeremiah's powerful voice rang through the crowd milling anxiously in the brown field. The blazing Kansas sun beat the life out of all below, and to most it was worth the nickel just to get in the shade of the tent. Of course, the Reverend's men had been diligent about spreading word of the healing service throughout downtown Wichita, and the assembled masses were almost all injured, sick or carrying someone who was. Bleak times often call for desperate measures, and hope in any form was a welcome relief from the pulverizing daily desolation.

  It took only half an hour for the available tickets to sell out. Being the kind hearted doorman, Jeremiah let a few families slip in late with a wink and a grin. Lot came strolling out of the tent once they were in and secured the heavy leather flap.

  "That's a hell of a crowd. How much did we get?" he asked as Jeremiah shook the box filled with silver and copper.

  "Hooee, gotta be fifty bucks in there!" Jeremiah cooed. "Days like this make it all worthwhile." He put the heavy box on his shoulder and walked with Lot to the trailers behind the tent.

  "So, did you get a look at the folks comin' through? There were some tasty looking dishes in there." Lot's eyes gleamed with a lunatic glare for half a second as the question fell out. Jeremiah licked his lips and tried not to think about it too much.

  "Oh man, it's too early for that kind of talk. I'm starving as it is and I don't want to have to think about it all evening."

  Lot laughed heavily, punching his friend on the shoulder playfully. "But isn't the anticipation half the fun?" Jeremiah frowned, staring at the sun as it crawled toward its tomb on the western horizon.

  "For some, I reckon it is. Not for me, though. I like to stay focused on what's in front of me. Now let's get this loot counted up so we can have a smoke before the real show gets going. By the way, you seen Abel lately?" Lot shook his head and whistled a few bars of Toreador, clapping his gloved hands as the two stepped into the shade of the hulking trailers.

  Inside the big white tent, Reverend Wainwright had whipped the crowd into a frenzy. "Times are troubled, my friends," he crowed from his pulpit. "I can see it in your eyes, I can see it in your faces, I can see it in your hearts." His frenetic gestures rippled his long white robe as the light from a hundred candles danced in his dark eyeglasses. "I know your pain, dear people, God knows your pain. We have felt it in a hundred cities all across this great land. We've heard the countless prayers begging for relief, begging for mercy, begging for a 'surcease of sorrow', as a man wiser than I once put it."

  Wainwright hopped down from the small stage and strode resolutely into the heart of the crowd. "But you know what? He hears you, and he shares with me all your prayers. All those cries that you think disappear unheard in the black of night do not go unheeded. I have come to this barren place for one reason today. I am here to take away your pain." With a heavy sigh the Reverend raised his arms to the Heavens. "Almighty Father! Smile on your dour children this day. Let your love rain on us and take away all the hurt Satan heaps on your flock!"

  It took only one cry from the crowd to ignite the wild fire. "My Daddy's got cholera! Can you help him?" Afraid to be left out of any miraculous proceedings, the mob began to shout as one. The pleading filled the tent and cascaded on Wainwright's back as he walked to the stage. He turned and gestured for calm. The wailing slowly tapered off until silence gripped the group in an anxious grasp.

  "Please, my children, there's no need to grovel. As I said, your prayers have been
heard and I am the answer to them. I will be here amongst you for as long as it takes. On this day the love of God Almighty will be felt by all! A lucky few amongst you will even have your ailments remedied by our most holy maker!" The crowd cheered and cried and gnashed their teeth in bliss. "Now, I see back in the back there, a child lying on the floor. Bring him to me."

  A somber looking man in dingy denim overalls scooped the boy from the floor with the infinite gentleness and promise of protection that only a father can give a child. He carried the boy slowly to the front as the crowd parted for him like the sea for Moses. Pain etched the boy's face, but he bit back the stinging tears, wanting to be strong like Daddy but knowing he would soon break.

  The man laid his son at Wainwright's feet. He removed his cap and spoke gently to the Reverend. "Please, sir, my boy, he fell down a well, his back is broken. The Doc says he ain't gonna make it."

  Wainwright smiled warmly on the man as he put a soft hand on his forehead. "Your faith brought you here today and that faith will be rewarded, my son. Please take a seat over there and let the Lord do his work." Wainwright shook his hands and knelt down next to the boy, his back to the crowd.

  "What's your name, child?" He asked as his gentle hands caressed grimy cheeks.

  The boy gritted his teeth and forced a reply through his lips. "Joseph, sir." It was all he could manage through the haze of agony. Wainwright nodded calmly, and with a deep breath he removed his dark glasses and set his gaze on the boy.

  A look somewhere between terror and awe crawled across Joseph's young face as he stared deeply into those hypnotic, dancing eyes. Wainwright lowered himself until the two were face-to-face. "Look at me, Joseph." He purred quietly. "Look deep and pour your pain into me. Give me all the bad things inside. Take the misery you feel and give it to me. All you have to do is let it go and you will be healed. Give me your pain."

  The Reverend leaned close and pressed his hands to the boy's temples. Joseph gasped as Wainwright increased the pressure on his head until it felt like it might burst. He could feel every finger and nail digging into his skin, pressing and grinding like a vise. He couldn't look away from those hideous eyes, he couldn't fight back or break free. Even if he could, he had to admit to himself he wouldn't.