Horror Library, Volume 4

by Bentley Little

  "Give me your pain."

  Hot, rancid breath and small droplets of spittle fell onto Joseph's face. He could feel the bones in his skull flexing and tensing under the relentless pressure, and then there was a spark. The pain in his head dissipated and a pulse of charged energy leapt from his temples to his back like a heated wire.

  "Give me your pain."

  Like a black sludge, Joseph felt the ball of anguish slowly drain from his shattered spine. The bones mended and the nerves reassembled as Wainwright pressed his fingers harder into his cranium. The boy wanted to scream in joy, to jump up and dance a jig right there in front of the astonished crowd, but he was held by the Reverend's crippling gaze. Soon, the pain which had been collecting for days was being pulled gently away from him.

  "Give me your pain. . ."

  Joseph wanted nothing more than to give away his pain, his hurt, his memories of the furious, withering torture he had suffered.

  "Please, take it away, take it all away."

  He pushed all his hurt to the Reverend's healing hands. Wainwright's eyes spun and twirled and he smiled as the boy gave in and let everything be taken. Joseph had never felt so good, so alive, but even after the pain was gone, the electricity continued to drain him.

  Fatigue suddenly fell over him and small twinges of fear replaced the joyous celebrations in his heart.

  "Give me your pain. . ."

  Joseph tried to shake free of the Reverend's hands, recognizing that something was wrong. He tried to speak, tried to tell his healer that he was all better, but he could not. The fanatical grin on Wainwright's face grew bigger as the boy tried to fight against his hold. Joseph's eyes glazed over and his will drained away. The Reverend smiled still, and pulled everything remaining from his victim, but was not yet satisfied.

  "Give me your pain. . ."

  ***

  I feel a gentle pressure and slight heat twisting the small of my back. So the show has begun and it appears that I shall be the first supplicant of the evening. I let out a little gasp as the pressure turns into a sharp pain grinding my vertebrae together. In the darkness, I know the other kids are looking at me wide eyed, seeing little, but understanding everything. They know they are momentarily spared, but fear what may be ahead.

  "Give me your pain."

  I hear the Reverend's words scything through my mind. He must be in full swing now, the conduit open and the prostrated parishioner marveling at the miracle he'd brought to Wichita.

  The sharp crack as my backbone gives out rings through the darkness like a gunshot. I would scream, but my voice was taken from me ages ago. I bend backwards as my spinal cord tears and all the sensation drains from my legs like fluid. An icy chill grips my lower body, complemented by the fiery agony ripping into the rest of me.

  "Give me your pain."

  I try to imagine who is lying in front of the Reverend, slowly feeling their life return and their body becoming healed. It could have been anybody, really. We would never know the people Wainwright set his healing hands to, marking their existence only by the signature of their affliction. He took their pain alright, but he didn't keep it. He gave it to us. Suffer the little children, indeed. It could have been a source of solace to know that through our sacrifice, someone else was freed of their burden, but we know what else the Reverend takes.

  When the families see the hollow eyes and hear the melancholy voice of the healed, they must understand as well. We don't really know how or why this reaper does his deeds, but in the guise of a holy man he draws the submissive to him like moths to a flame. For some, I guess, the end of agonies is worth the price of a soul.

  As the echoes of my breaking back cease ringing from the dark walls, silence falls on us. Only, it's not silent, I can hear a slight jangling and the soft click of a lock releasing. A burning sliver of light blinds us momentarily before the door is flung wide open. The dying red sun envelops the huge frame of the man the Reverend calls Abel standing before us.

  "Hello, Juliana," he whispers softly, his voice dripping like bittersweet poison. The sounds from the big tent waft slowly toward us. The door has never been opened during a show before and it is amazing to hear the cheers and exultations of the crowd. Taking a large revolver from his pocket, Abel climbs into the trailer and kneels carefully next to little Juliana.

  "You an' me are goin' for a walk, girl." His shaky voice imitates calm and caring, but seethes with hidden malice. As he waves the pistol in the girl's face, he asks, "Are you gonna' be a good little girl?"

  Juliana's expression doesn't change, but she nods her assent. Abel fumbles with her locks, his thick leather gloves making the process almost comical. With a grunt, he finally gets her bindings undone and the last chain falls away.

  Even after it's too late, the imbecile doesn't understand his mistake. At this point, my compatriots and I are no better than wild animals, beaten and starved, and to remove the leash of such a creature is both foolish and dangerous. Juliana springs toward her tormentor with a feral growl that chills even my screaming blood. Despite her atrophied and hunger-deteriorated muscles, she is on the big man before he can react.

  With a hoarse yell, Abel falls backward out of the trailer, waving his gun wildly in the air. He understands the power the pistol carries, but not the operation that imbues that power. Juliana sinks her few remaining teeth into his wide throat and crimson liquid sprays the thirsty earth. The pistol falls from his fingers and he tries to yell for help but can only produce a gurgling whimper. The little girl, drenched in ichors and hopeless ferocity, steps back and picks up the heavy gun. As she aims at him, the two lock eyes. Abel holds his arms in front of his face in a futile attempt to ward off a bullet.

  The big pistol wavers in Juliana's shaky grip. She looks back at us, tears leaving burning tracks on her squalid face. Her sad blue eyes lock onto mine and she says the last words I will ever hear her utter. "I'm free."

  Juliana smiles as she puts the gun to her head and pulls the trigger. The horrifying impact spins her in a full circle as her pale face disintegrates into fragments of bone and brain. Blubbering and bleeding, Abel crawls to her and gently wraps her lifeless body in his massive arms.

  The exultant noise from the crowd dissipates as the gunshot works its way through them. About a dozen of the more stouthearted revelers exit the tent to investigate. They immediately move to surround Abel, assuming the worst as he cradles the dead girl. Their cries for the harshest of justice fade to silence however as their mutual attention is drawn across the dusty field to our open cell. Their wide eyes and gaping mouths tell the story of the horrors we have become. They don't understand why we are here. They see only the blood, the bruises, the broken children in chains.

  The Reverend bursts from the tent with Adam following close behind. After surveying the scene he waves hurriedly to Jeremiah and Lot. "I need you two to tend to the flock while I sort out this nasty bit of business. Jeremiah, you use that silver tongue of yours to keep the people distracted. Lot, gather the men and secure the tent."

  The pair nod solemnly and move to their tasks. As they retreat, the Reverend turns his attention to Abel and the late Juliana.

  With Adam in tow, he pushes his way through the small knot of dumbfounded onlookers. Unleashing a vicious snarl, Wainwright plucks Abel from the ground. "You fool! You damned fool! Do you realize what you have done?" He hurls the big man into the dirt with ease, leaving him whimpering and cradling Juliana's decimated corpse.

  The Reverend sighs heavily. "Malaco—, sorry, Adam, I believe my work here is done. There will be no more miracles today." A look of pure disgust crawls across his craggy face as the band of men assails him with calls for Abel's scalp. "Clean this mess up, Adam. Let no word of what transpired today escape this plain." With barely subdued fury the Reverend takes Abel by the ragged throat and drags him, mewling and whimpering, away from the angry mob.

  As Wainwright withdraws, Adam raises a gloved hand and waves at Lot. The large man waves back and motio
ns to the entrance of the tent. A pair of men, one called Isaiah and one I do not know, hurry through to join Jeremiah. Lot secures the opening, tying it behind them with a thick strand of rope. The other hands move slowly around the circumference of the tent, similarly binding openings and weak spots. A murmur of worry and discontent begins to swell inside.

  Satisfied with preparations, Adam grins, and for the first time I can recall, he bares what appear to be large fangs. His teeth are slender and razor sharp, like a mouthful of needles. The small group of men around him gasps and takes an involuntary step back.

  Adam laughs, pulls off his leather gloves and reveals not hands but coiled tentacles hung with serrated hooks. They uncurl slowly, pulsing and twitching as they taste the violence in the air. Adam lifts his head and howls at the bloody sun, and from beyond my line of sight, his brethren howl back. In those shrieks the assembled crowd hears, whether consciously or not, the somber message. All must die.

  The small crowd outside is strangely silent as Adam sprints into the heart of the throng. The black, pulsating tentacles hanging from his arms wrap around one unlucky throat and constrict, easily tearing through flesh and gristle. Adam roars and puts his teeth to his victim's face, ripping off a huge swath of nose and cheek. Blood sprays in a wide arc, drenching the closest of the stunned spectators. The torn man tries to scream in unison with his tormentor, but can force out only a thin whine and look of pleading desperation.

  No one moves to help him, though; the huddled mass is frozen in shock and silence. Their minds still reeling from Wainwright's miraculous spectacle, the grotesque butchering paralyzes nearly all of them.

  After a brief moment, a young man in a dark brown suit begins to shriek and babble. His fear spreads like a contagion, and the remnants of the mob scatter in a unified display of self preservation. Adam instinctively leaps at the closest of them. Tearing a huge gash in the man's leg to prevent his flight, Adam quickly stalks to the next victim.

  Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, Lot runs from his post at the entrance and smashes into the largest clump of fleeing parishioners, ripping and tearing everything in his reach. As he gnaws on a young man's skull, I see he has the same sickle dentistry as Adam, and the same barbed appendages shredding flesh and bone. Lost in a frenzied bloodlust, Lot drops the mutilated corpse and unleashes his fury. Blood and bodies whirl around him, chunks of gore and clotted hair hanging from his fangs and hooks.

  The screams of those caught outside are soon echoed by those coming from within the tent. Jeremiah has apparently set to his task with the same vehemence and vigor as Adam and Lot. The tent's white walls are soon soaked through with muddy red stains and cries for mercy.

  In the chaos, a few of the victims are able to escape the abattoir by wriggling under the hot, sticky canvas. As they scramble for whatever safety the baked earth has to offer, Lot and Adam give chase. Soon they are beyond where I can see and all I am left with are the sickening sounds of the hunt and the screams of the slaughter.

  The waning sunlight is suddenly blocked as Wainwright steps into the doorway. "I am sorry you had to witness this, my children. Please do not allow this savagery to affect your work. When given the opportunity, we will again perform such great miracles." The Reverend sighs as he glances at the small girl with the massive exit wound in her head. "It is a great shame to lose Juliana. I quite liked her." He pauses to cast an accusatory glance at Abel, who stands behind him, head down and crying like a whipped dog. "Have no fear, though. We will find more friends for you before the next show."

  We have no reply to give as Wainwright slowly closes the door. He smiles warmly, but his eyes speak the truth, they always have. He knows we will all take the same way out as Juliana, given the chance; he calls us his children, but we will never be anything but slaves. The heavy, metal door bangs shut, cutting us off from the atrocities of Reverend Wainwright and his acolytes. Once again we are left without any answers or hope of solace. Once again we are left with nothing but silence and dark.

  And the show.

  The goddamn show, it must go on.

  Geoffrey L. Mudge is a writer of horror and dark fantasy. Being an air force brat and travel hound, he has visited and lived in various locales around the world. In his travels, he has consumed the cultural fears shared by our global community and he hopes to inflict these fears on the literate populace with extreme prejudice. Mudge and his black lab, Boomer, are currently residing in central Texas and when not writing they enjoy frightening local children and wildlife.

  —CONTINUITY

  by Lorne Dixon

  A sound from overhead like helicopter blades spinning: the sputtering of film running through an old projector, gears threading through sprocket holes, a blip, a skip, and the picture on screen jumped, the framing thrown off, blurring, correcting. The image froze. On the wide aluminized screen, two children inside a runaway mining car screamed, their mouths trapped open by the freeze-frame. The image was rough and unfinished, the color uncorrected, their faces speckled with black grain. This was how the twelve jurors saw the film, over and over, watching with bleary eyes and wishing it was over and they could return to the courtroom, where they could easily turn their eyes away from the prosecutor's enlarged photos of the victims.

  In the last row, cowering in an aisle seat, the film's director, Marius Spiegler, sat with his arms crossed, his defense lawyers seated around him in a failing attempt to block the jury's sight lines. The judge allowing the film to be screened was bad enough for their case, but an unintended facial expression—not horrified enough, or too much—might color the jury's perception of the director. Better they not see him at all.

  Craning his neck to see over an attorney's head, Marius studied the profile of the jury foreman. A professional wearing a mid-range suit and Buddy Holly eyewear, he lifted the glasses and dabbed at his wet eyes with his fingertips. During jury selection, they'd learned that he was a father of three—but since they were all grown and out of the house his lawyers had waved it off. Only moments before the house lights dimmed, the judge had pleaded with the jury not to let it become personal, not to let the disturbing images burrow too deeply under their skin. Examining the expression of horror and disgust on the foreman's face, Marius could see that the judge's admonition was already forgotten.

  The screen went dark, flickered, and the picture returned. Alex Carmichael and Nhu Toai finished their scream as the coal car raced down the ramshackle track. Marius could tell the difference in the long shots where they'd used midget stunt doubles. He doubted the audience could tell, but to his eyes it always looked wrong: he knew the difference, even outside his own films. Another close up, and Alex and Nhu returned, faces full of comic panic. They were damn good performers for their ages, better than some of the seasoned professionals that had appeared in his films over the last twenty years.

  The sudden dip appeared on the track beyond the coal car. Marius felt his chest tighten. The wooden crossbeams overhead loomed. He knew what was coming and wasn't sure he could watch it. . .again. He couldn't imagine a worse torment in hell. But no, he couldn't turn away. If any of the jurors saw him divert his eyes, they might see it as a signal of guilt. So he stared straight ahead and tried to unfocus his eyes.

  "It's just like a roller coaster," Victor Ferguston, the cinematographer, had told the kids as he helped hoist them into the car. Nhu batted her long eyelashes and told him she's never been on a roll-co-ster, and the crew had all laughed.

  "Don't worry, it's fun, it's all make believe for the movie."

  The car shook as it raced down the track, jostling the kids inside from side to side, the camera moving alongside, capturing the action. Racing up to the dip, Alex closed his eyes. On the set, Marius remembered grinding his teeth together. The boy's eyes needed to be open. They'd need to reshoot.

  The film was silent. No optical effects or digital soundtrack had been added. But Marius remembered the hard metallic ping that echoed through Sound Stage Four. The front right
wheel broke free of its axle and flattened to the track, derailing the car and jerking it off the ground. Instead of descending the decline, the vehicle rocketed straight forward, as if attempting to jump the chasm.

  Nhu screamed again. This time, she was not acting.

  The scream, silent on screen but still echoing in his memory, was cut short before it could reach its highest pitch. The car passed under the slanted support beams over the dip. At first, the crew stood in place, confused and unable to process what had just happened. It appeared as if the car had just missed colliding with the lowest beam, narrowly passing underneath. But when the car tumbled down the slope, fell back onto the track, and emptied onto the sound stage floor, the confusion turned to shock. Alex and Nhu's bodies spilled out of the coal car. Their severed heads rolled out a second later.

  ***

  The jury deliberated on a rainy Thursday afternoon. The gray sky outside the courtroom windows reminded Marius of the childhood afternoons he spent alone at matinee showings of cheap science fiction and horror pictures. If he closed his eyes he could see the old Stateline Theater: purple velvet curtains on the walls, dim dome lights illuminating the aisle like an airplane runway, the scent of buttered popcorn fighting with the stench of cigarette smoke drifting down from the smoking section. The Stateline was long gone, torn down and replaced by a strip mall, but it stayed alive in his memory, especially on overcast days like this.

  Victor, former cameraman and current co-defendant, sat across a cheap folding table in one of the courtroom's meeting rooms. The lawyers were conferring elsewhere, probably somewhere a cab drive away with a wet bar. "You see their faces?"