SIMPLE THINGS
A Consignment Shop Unlike Any Other
Edited by Franklin E. Wales
Cover Design by Jeffrey Kosh
Interior Artwork by Luke Spooner
Copyright © 2017 by Lycan Valley Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, including in print, electronic form or by mechanical means, without written permission from the publisher, author or individual copyright holder except for in the case of a book reviewer, who may quote brief passages embedded in and as part of an article or review.
Authors retain rights to individual stories under their name.
Cover image and design © 2016 Jeffrey Kosh
Interior artwork © 2017 Luke Spooner
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2016
Second Printing, 2017
Lycan Valley Press
1625 E. 72nd St. STE 700 PMB 132
Tacoma, WA 98404
[email protected]
This book is dedicated to you, dear reader.
Table of Contents
SIMPLE THINGS Grand Opening
WHISPER by Ross Baxter
MADNESS, DECANTED by Martin Reaves
MAD HONEY by Gregory L. Norris
OLD FRIENDS by Jacki Wildman Wales
THE LONG NIGHT by Paul D. Marks
HOME, SWEET HELL by Roy C. Booth & Axel Kohagen
BOOK OF DREAMS by Catrin Sian Rutland
A WRAPPER IN THE WIND by K. Trap Jones
THE DENTURIST by Jo-Anne Russell
FEATHER CANYON by David Tocher
LOCKS OF LOVE by Frank Martin
HEX OF THE HANDBAG by Lori Safranek
SAFE HAVEN by Billie Sue Mosiman
DIARY OF A MAD STEAK KNIFE by Nicholas Paschall
THE GIVING OF THE COLD AND CURSED by Terry M. West
ASHES by Joseph M. Monks
STRANGE BLOOD by Sheri Sebastian-Gabriel
THE BEAUTY MARK by Robert Essig
IMPURE BREED by Ken MacGregor
ORANGE KEYHOLE by Roy Bishop
JACOB’S CALL by Robert Teun
PROTECTING SWEET SADIE by Laura J. Hickman
DON’S CLOSET by E.F. Schraeder
CAT’S EYES AND PURIES by Anthony Servante
MR. BROWN by V. Franklin
THANK YOU, Please Come Again
SIMPLE THINGS
Grand Opening
Greetings and welcome to the Grand Opening of Simple Things; a consignment shop unlike any you’ve ever experienced before.
Inside you’ll find home furnishings, house wares, fashion accessories, toys, books and a number of one-of-a-kind items you won’t find anywhere else. All previously owned items have a past life and a story to tell. Our items are not all that different on the surface. We specialize in everyday ordinary things. Simple things…with a twist.
So please, come in. Allow me to show you around. I’m sure you’ll find many items of interest. But be forewarned: All of our things have a dark and sinister side to them. Some of our things bite, some cut, some will steal your breath, and many will steal your good night’s sleep for some time to come.
Just let me open the door and turn the lights on, and then we’ll begin.
I’m sure you noticed this blue helicopter kiddie ride. They were once found in front of every plaza and department store, parked alongside a bucking bronco and fire truck. For just a quarter, children could enter the wonderful world of imagine and take flight. Feel free to examine it … at your own risk of course.
This ride was brought here from a traveling carnival by Ross Baxter, a man who after thirty years at sea, now concentrates on writing sci-fi and horror fiction in his Derby, England home with his Norwegian wife and their two Anglo-Viking kids.
WHISPER
Ross Baxter
THE loud knocking woke Pat from his slumber. Turning over did not help; the thin aluminum door of the trailer amplified the noise, completely swamping the small living space inside. He waited for a few moments but the banging continued – the type of insistence that did not go away easily.
“Okay, okay,” he shouted irritably. “I’m coming.”
Swinging his legs from the bed, he staggered to the door, his path lit by the neon glare that pulsed through the closed blinds of the trailer. He yawned once and then unlatched the creaking door. Outside stood his red-faced arcade supervisor, together with an equally red-faced woman gripping the arm of a blubbering small child.
“Duane?” Pat said questioningly to his arcade supervisor.
“I’m sorry boss,” the arcade supervisor cut in. “I’ve offered a refund but she insisted on seeing you.”
“What seems to be the problem?” Pat scowled, addressing the woman.
The woman eyed him with surprise and revulsion – shocked that he would answer the door in just a grubby pair of ancient underpants.
“That ride of yours!” she yelled angrily, regaining her momentum in an instant. “Marty said it whispered things to him, disgusting and sick things. He’s frightened out of his wits!”
“This is a travelling funfair and we’ve got lots of rides, lady,” Pat muttered with irritation. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”
“That blue helicopter, just outside where the slots are,” she shot back accusingly.
Pat paused, picturing the small single-seat ride, designed to keep toddlers and small children amused whilst their parents played the slot machines. It had a small roofed cockpit and flashing lights on its tail and sides, with a small speaker that made helicopter noises. He had bought it only a few days earlier from the bankrupt Panelli Brothers Fair when they were in Cleveland.
“I don’t have any staff manning those kid’s rides. If someone said anything to your child, they don’t work here.”
“It wasn’t a person, it was the ride!” she shot back.
“That helicopter only makes whirring noises,” Pat said flatly. “It doesn’t talk or say anything.”
“It does so!” she shrieked. “Marty was so frightened he wet himself.”
Pat glanced down with distain at the wet patch staining the kid’s jeans.
“What did it say?” Pat asked, already bored with the conversation but knowing that the woman would not let it go.
“He’s too frightened to tell me,” she snapped. “He can only say it whispered bad things to him.”
“Well, let’s go and see if the helicopter whispers.” Pat yawned, grabbing a long dark overcoat that hung behind the door. He put it on and slipped his feet into a ragged pair of ancient boots with no laces in them.
“You can’t come dressed like that!” she said, worriedly eyeing his heavily tattooed bare legs protruding below the worn overcoat.
“Why not? I own the carnival, I can wear what I like,” Pat replied testily.
Duane, the woman and the child all quickly stepped out of his way as Pat strode down the steps from the trailer, heading towards the slots arcade. His hulking size and strange attire caused the milling crowds to part and they soon reached the blue and white helicopter ride, which stood forlornly next to a battered fire-truck ride and ride-on dolphin. Compared with the fire-truck and the peeling dolphin, the shiny helicopter looked pristine.
“So what did it say, kid?” Pat addressed the child.
The child stared worriedly at Pat for a moment and then burst back into tears.
&nb
sp; “Disgusting and sick things!” the child’s mother said accusingly.
“Did you hear it?” Pat asked.
“Are you calling my child a liar?” she shot back.
“No,” Pat sighed. “I just want to know what it said.”
“Well put two quarters in and find out for yourself!” said the woman.
Pat fished deep in the pockets of the grubby overcoat but only came back with a couple of dimes and a Mexican peso. He looked over to his arcade supervisor, who obligingly offered him two quarters. After a brief inspection, Pat bent down to insert the coins, whereon the child yelped and stepped behind his mother. As the second coin tumbled through the slot, the helicopter gave a small jerk and started to rock slowly back and forth, tail lights flashing. Pat stuck his head inside the bulbous plastic cockpit and listened, the arcade supervisor doing the same from the other side. Both men listened for a few moments, blank expressions on their faces.
“All I can hear is the rotor noises,” Pat said, turning towards the mother.
“Listen some more!” she demanded, sticking her head into the cockpit next to the bending supervisor.
All three listened intently whilst the child started to step slowly backwards away from the rocking machine. They stood there for a whole minute, their heads inside the cockpit until the rocking stopped and the lights faded.
“Nope,” said Pat with finality. “Can’t hear anything.”
“Well Marty certainly did!” she accused, suddenly looking around for her son. “Marty!”
The three adults peered around, scanning for the missing child.
“Over there,” said the arcade supervisor, motioning with his head towards the rear of the shabby dolphin.
“Marty – you come here now!” the woman shrieked.
The child shook his head, a look of fear written plainly across his tear-stained face.
“Look ma’am,” Pat said, looking across the fuselage. “I’m not sure what happened but I’ll give you five bucks to get the kids pants cleaned.”
“That’s not good enough!” she said, rounding the front of the helicopter.
“Take it or leave it,” Pat said flatly.
“I’ll call the cops,” the woman threatened.
“Good luck with that. They’ve had enough free carnival tickets to bail OJ Simpson. Five dollars is my final offer.”
The woman scowled angrily at Pat and his supervisor, seemingly considering her options.
“Keep your damned money!” she spat, grabbing Marty roughly by the shoulder and dragging him screaming towards the carnival exit.
“Considering the fact that we’re barely breaking even, I consider that to be a result,” Pat muttered bitterly, before turning to his supervisor. “But in the future, you need to try harder to appease the customers before getting me out of my pit!”
“Sorry boss,” mumbled Duane. “But she’s the third one who’s complained about the helicopter tonight. I dealt with the other two.”
“The third? We’ve only been open two hours.”
The supervisor nodded.
“All the same complaint?” asked Pat.
“Yeah, kids complaining about hearing whispers and stuff.”
“And stuff?” Pat questioned.
“Difficult to get a straight answer,” said Duane. “They were all bawling and yelling. The other parents took the refund, although I had to give ten dollars to one of them.”
“Shit,” Pat said with a heavy sigh. “I paid four-hundred bucks for the damn thing just two days ago back in Cleveland. This is the first time we’ve had it out and it’s already costing me money. At this rate we’ll be joining the Panelli Brothers on Social Security!”
“Shall I switch it off?” asked the supervisor glumly.
“Yeah,” Pat growled, “and don’t bother me again tonight.”
Pat turned and stalked back to his dingy trailer, ignoring the looks of the passers-by staring at his tattooed legs. Once inside, he grabbed the walkie-talkie from next to the congealed remains of his supper and switched it on, static immediately filling the cramped interior.
“Joe, you there?” he yelled into the battered transceiver.
The hiss of static returned whilst he looked expectantly at the device, waiting for an answer.
“Here, boss. What’s up?”
“I need you to look at that helicopter ride we bought from the Panelli Brothers,” Pat demanded. “There’s some sort of interference coming over the speaker that might sound like whispering.”
“I can’t now. I’ve had to take the Waltzer down. There’s a problem with the switchgear and I need to re-wire it. It’ll take me up till closing time at least.”
Pat closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.
“Are you there, Pat?”
“I’m here,” Pat said tiredly. “Look at the helicopter ride first thing in the morning. I need to know what those robbing bastards have sold me.”
“Sure,” Joe’s voice came over the static. “First thing in the morning.”
Pat turned off the walkie-talkie and flung it crossly back on the cluttered dining table. He slipped off the grubby overcoat and boots, and grabbed the half drunk bottle of bourbon from the messy bedside cabinet. Another night to forget.
***
Joe was working on the helicopter when Pat arrived at the small trailer-based workshop. He was too engrossed in his work to notice the carnival owner enter.
“Did you fix the Waltzer?” announced Pat loudly.
Joe glanced up momentarily before returning his attention to the mass of wiring he held. “And good morning to you, too.”
“Late night?” asked Pat, trying to adopt a slightly more conciliatory tone.
“And some. But we managed to replace the burnt out switchgear circuits from our spares so the Waltzer will be spinning tonight.”
“Will the helicopter be spinning instead of whispering tonight as well?”
“Well, equipment whispering to kids wasn’t on the curriculum at the technical college I went to,” grunted Joe. “It’s got the weirdest wiring and mechanical set up inside, I reckon it must be European or something. Anyway, I guess the whispering was probably just the speaker picking up some sort of radio frequency. I’ve stripped it out and replaced it. I can’t hear any voices from the new one.”
“Exactly what I wanted to hear. We need to start making some money from it rather than it spending the night unplugged.”
“Amen to that,” Joe said, putting down a screwdriver. He glanced up but saw Pat had already left the trailer.
***
After an early supper, Pat made sure that the Waltzer was in full swing before making his way over to the slots arcade to check on the helicopter. As soon as he rounded the hotdog stand. he knew something was wrong by the small crowd gathering outside the arcade. He broke into a jog as he saw a hulk of a guy pinning Duane the arcade supervisor up against the rocking helicopter. Anyone who ran carnivals in the mid-west was no stranger to trouble, and Pat was certainly no exception. He knew he had just one shot at stopping the situation from escalating into something very unpleasant, and knew he had to act fast. After a few uttered words into his ever-present walkie-talkie, he pushed through the gathering crowd to stand directly behind the giant.
“Man-handling fairground employees is not covered by the admission fee,” Pat spoke low but direct.
The huge man spun around, one huge hand keeping hold of the front of Duane’s jacket. He eyed Pat with derision, looking down with a sneer on his large face.
“And who might you be,” he snorted.
“I’m the owner of the carnival,” Pat said calmly. “Here to see that any issues are settled in a civilized manner.”
“That machine of yours scared my kid half to death!” the giant roared. “Is that what you call civilized?”
Pat looked around for a monster child but failed to pick one out. Instead he saw that Joe and two of his other employees were quickly and covertly moving towards th
em, each ready for whatever would transpire.
“What kid?” Pat asked.
“He’s run off!” the man yelled angrily. “And I want to know what you’re going to do about it!”
“Well, let’s find the boy first,” said Pat calmly. “Then we can go to my office and sort it all out.”
The giant let go of Duane and spun round fully to face Pat. “I think I’ll sort you out now, you stinking piece of shit!”
Pat took a deliberate step backwards, but even then could smell the alcohol heavy on the big man’s breath. That was a good thing, as was the fact that his three employees were now ready to spring to action.
“Look, there’s no need for any trouble,” Pat re-assured him loudly, making sure most of the gathering crowd could hear. “We’ll get you some compensation so you can enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He could see the giant’s intentions clearly telegraphed in the brute’s piggy eyes, and was expecting the sudden punch moments before it actually came. He ducked easily and stepped swiftly to the left, whilst at the same time signaling to his employees not to act yet.
“The cops are on their way!” warned Pat.
The giant ignored him and sent another heavy punch in his direction. Pat swiftly side-stepped left, but this time followed up with a lunge forward and a rabbit punch hard into the giant’s stomach. As he doubled-up, Pat followed with a vicious upper cut that connected with his nose and dropped the man senseless into the mud.
“There’s nothing to see here!” Pat yelled at the gathering crowd whilst nursing his bruised knuckles. “All rides are free for the next ten minutes.”
Seeing the fight was over before it began, the crowd quickly dispersed to take advantage of the free rides. Duane announced the offer to staff via his walkie-talkie while the other three employees joined Pat to stare down at the fallen giant.
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