The Haunts & Horrors Megapack: 31 Modern & Classic Stories

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Next we pray, most gracious God and merciful Father, for the private needs and burdens of our hearts, which we offer up to you in this period of silent reflection…”

  As silence fell his gaze rose to the empty pews at the back of the sanctuary. But there was someone sitting there now, someone who definitely hadn’t been there before. A short, pointed-faced man sat in the back pew, right in the corner, near the trapdoor.

  Ron couldn’t be sure—the strange-looking man obstructed his view—but it almost seemed as if the trapdoor was open.

  The man wore a soft grey coat that looked like some kind of heavily napped fur. Tiny gimlet eyes gleamed behind an enormous pink nose wiggling as if sniffing the air. His big hairy hands flopped over the back of the pew in front of him, revealing long white fingers that appeared far too big for his body. As Ron looked back down at the podium he had the surreal thought: Good fingers for digging with.…

  He steadied his voice and continued to read his prayer until he reached the last paragraph.

  “Finally, O God and Father, grant also that we, who have gathered here today to hear your Word, may acknowledge you in all things this coming week. Help us to praise and glorify your holy name…”

  Ron straightened up as he recited the final sentence, a doxology he had used many times before and knew by heart. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to the back pew again.

  The mysterious little man was gone. The trapdoor, if it ever had been open, was now definitely shut.

  He finished his prayer with an “Amen” that was more relieved than resounding.

  * * * *

  As the last note of the organ postlude faded away, Ron sprung to his feet and hurried to the back of the sanctuary, not sure what he expected to see. The back pew remained empty and he couldn’t very well get down on his knees and examine the trapdoor. With a quiet sigh of resignation he took a last glance around. His eyes fell on the lost property box and he almost jumped with surprise.

  The fur cap was gone. Come to think of it, it had been exactly the same shade of dull grey as the strange man’s coat. But what really startled him was that someone—the man in the back pew?—had put something in its place.

  A pen: an expensive-looking red ink pen. The one he had brought to the Writers’ Group last Monday night and hadn’t been able to find since. The one he’d concluded he’d lost somewhere down the tunnel.

  THE BLISSFUL HOUSE ON BLYSWORTH STREET, by Skadi meic Beorh

  “John Brindle, please.”

  “This is he. May…I help you?”

  “Ah…Mr. Brindle? This is Edward Carmichael. I, that is, we live at 7737 Blysworth Street…”

  “Listen, is this some kind of joke? Who are you!”

  “I’ve…just told you my name, Mr. Brindle. We…”

  “There is no 7737 Blysworth!”

  “Please, Mr. Brindle. I understand what kind of pain you’re in. Believe me, I do. All I ask is that you give me a chance to explain.”

  “You have about a half a minute, Mr., uh, what’d you say your name was?”

  “Ed Carmichael.”

  “Okay, Ed. Better make it good.”

  “Mr. Brindle, I am calling you and your wife Charlene representing a coalition of five families who now live on Blysworth Street. Our houses were all constructed this past Spring, and we’re the new residents. We…”

  “Has something happened? Have we left something behind? What’s the problem?”

  “No sir. Please. Let me tell you why we’re calling.”

  * * * *

  Silence. Heartbeats. A soft questioning whisper close to John’s feverish ear. Who is it? Who, John?

  * * * *

  “Mr. Carmichael. Why…ah, would…why are you phoning?”

  “It’s…your boys, John. They’re…”

  “God…”

  “We…”

  “O God in Heaven…p-please…”

  “This is not a prank, Mr. Brindle. Please believe me.”

  More silence. Then…

  Have…they…have they said anything? Asked about us, I mean? Are they…are they happy?”

  Ed Carmichael took a needed breath. The whole room breathed with him.

  “Oh, very happy, I should say, John. The happiest.”

  “Is…anyone living there now? 7727, I mean.”

  “No. No one wants to stay. It’s like…well…it’s like…”

  “Please. O Lord…please. Do us a favor. Will you, Mr. Carbuncle?”

  “It’s Carmichael, and, anything, John. God. Anything.”

  “Go to Holman Real Estate. It’s over on Airport, not far from Cody Road. You know the area? You know the town well, do you?”

  “Mere details. Just tell me. What do you need?”

  “Secure 7727 with them. Holman Real Estate. They own the property, or know who does now. Would you, ah, your coalition, do that for us, Ed?”

  “Of course we will. Immediately. Today. So…would I be right in guessing that…you’re coming home?”

  “Yes. I believe so. Yes. Our boys need us home.”

  * * * *

  7727 Blysworth Street had been empty since the late summertime of 1970, when the John and Charlene Brindle sold the property to a local real estate agency and moved to carve out a new life in Delaware. A rather wild “bottom of the garden” style lot sat on the right side of the half acre built upon by the Brindles in 1959, when most Americans still believed in the expansive Post-War Dream…this tract also belonging to the family. In this lot grows a thick copse of old growth Spanish oak which once sported a fantastic interconnected set of soft-impact mahogany treehouses masterminded by architect John and his boys. Beyond this lot stage left were more recently built, as far as the dead-ending watershed will allow, five smaller abodes resembling only in semi-ranch façade the sprawling Brindle Place; but these early-’70’s knock-offs conspicuously lack the long, lazy porch furnished with the requisite rocking chairs, the undulating wooden loveseat and, of course, the creaking porch swing. Stage right still sports the old Coppard residence on the corner of Blysworth and Cellar, sold by the uneasy and childless Coppards in late 1970, and only a month or so after was turned into one of the first assisted living establishments in Alabama, from which no complaints ever issued. Across the street, on the west side of Blysworth, lies a spacious but rarely used baseball diamond and public park, zoned to never be re-developed. And then there was the watershed filled with trails and streams and lazy, sunny glades. All in all, this was an exurban environment perfect for a burgeoning family of six.

  John and Charlene had joyously given birth to four happy, athletic boys. In 1970 the youngest, Charlie, was six. His oldest brother, Bobby, had just turned twelve. In between were Stevie, eight, and Jackie, ten-and-a-half. There had never been any age problems between the lads. They had all loved one another fiercely, and had included each other in everything (even when the youngest could only crawl and laugh), somehow intuitively knowing they had a ready-made clan on their hands, and were as proud about that fact as had been their Mercian ancestors. Tragically, though, on the way home from visiting their maternal grandparents up toward Montgomery late one rainy night, the vehicle the boys were traveling in, a sturdy ‘57 Chevy, somehow lost traction on the slippery roads and wrecked, taking the lives of everybody aboard, the driver being their stalwart grandfather, civil rights advocate and pillar of the community Hieronymous Norton Hezekiah Buggs III, aka Norty Buggs. Less than a month later John and Charlene were living on a refurbished Colonial farmstead in Delaware, the fortuitous property of a recently deceased great-uncle.

  Just before Christmas 1970 the Jenkins ~ George and his wife Thelma and their twin fifth-grade roustabouts Skip and Rip ~ moved into 7727 Blysworth. The boys made immediate friends with whom they referred to as “the kids from the neighborhood”. George and Thelma were very happy about this quick development, until they discovered that there were no other children living in the whole vicinity, and that what children there were seemed to be s
haring their new home with them. The Jenkins moved just after the holidays.

  In the six months following, three more families with children moved into 7727, the most determined of them staying four months before the midnight games of kick-the-can and raid-the-fridge proved too noisy, too expensive and, well, just too spooky. Apparently ghosts do eat. Growing ghosts, anyway.

  In ‘72 the five smaller houses aforementioned were all built within a three month stretch, and suddenly the neighborhood was filled with, ah, physical children of all ages. The Rorshacks came with three hopscotching girls and a strapping, fiery-haired Viking lad. Then came the Jillions with cute twin third grade tree nymphs. This quaint family was followed by the Favershams, who bought the third new house down and two months later added a baby imp to their ten year old daredevil. The Carmichaels relocated from Pensacola with an adventurous princess and a pirate captain. And finally the Nelsons, taking up the rear nearest the watershed, moved in with a fifth grade tomboy who could be in three places at once.

  The new children of Blysworth Street got to know and love “the kids from the big house”, but when hopeful parents began to investigate for bar-b-que get-togethers, ball games, picnics, potlucks and such, it was discovered, to everyone’s mutual alarm, that the Brindle Place had not been lived in for nearly a year. No one, though, knew the heartbreaking story. Until freelance writer Ed Carmichael did some library research and discovered the sad truth surrounding the home.

  Then came the amiable Hillweathers. They moved into 7727 Blysworth in the last week of June ‘72, but not without being dutifully forewarned by William Jillion, Kingsley Faversham and both Ilene and Richard Nelson. But no amount of caveat did any good. The real estate office had said not a word about any haunting, they had six rambunctious boys, the house and grounds were nothing less than perfect, and that was that. A week later, after nine fireworks conflagrations, seven refrigerator raids and one or two interminable games of boisterous hide-and-seek, not to mention an all-night treehouse slumber party and the introduction of two rather garrulous ghost hounds, the amiable Hillweather’s, after making note that they couldn’t exactly see the children playing at their raucous charades, changed their minds about the neighborhood and were gone within the month. Holman Real Estate placed an immediate moratorium on 7727 Blysworth, and that was the end of what would probably have been a very long list of disconcerted owners.

  For the remainder of the newcomers to Blysworth Street, who put up with it all because they weren’t actually sharing a dwelling with the cheerful specters, it was time for a little meeting. And maybe even a phone call up North.

  EPILOGUE

  John and Charlene Brindle did indeed go back to their hometown and former residence, but they didn’t stay for very long. It seems that, well, their boys liked the idea of a farm in Delaware far better than an exurban street full of excited kids who were constantly trying to figure out ways to “get to the other side”. And, needless to say, the concerned parents of these children were not a little relieved at the vacating of 7727 Blysworth Street. More relief came when the house and treefort were razed and dismantled, respectively. In the event, the Holman report read, that one or more of the Brindle clan should decide to relocate yet again.

  THE BONE FLUTE, by M.E. Brines

  The curio shop in Chinatown was crammed between a noodle shop and one of those stores that advertises “nothing over a dollar” but never stocks anything worth half that. Steve stood on the sidewalk looking through the window at the debris on display.

  “Looks like a garage sale at a museum,” he muttered to himself. “Just the sort of junk Robert loves.”

  His brother-in-law’s birthday was next week and he was tired of the complaints from his sister about his “mundane” gifts. The striped tie he gave him last year was no Taj Mahal, but it was real silk and cost a bundle. Maybe something from this oriental junk shop would satisfy her for a fraction of that.

  He browsed the shop. The aisles were narrow, the shelves heaped with mismatched trinkets: monkey skulls, lacquered masks, glassware, incense burners, water pipes pawned by druggies, silk fans, mostly the worse for wear. It annoyed Steve that the old Chinese guy who owned the place watched him constantly as if he expected a middle-aged stockbroker to shoplift a solid brass Buddha or a chipped plaster miniature of the Great Wall.

  Surely there had to be something that would impress his sister? He pawed through a bin containing an assortment of chopsticks made of some dark shiny material inlaid with brightly colored plastic. He guessed they were more likely Bakelite than ebony and was about to move on when he caught a glimpse of ivory from the bottom.

  Real ivory might be something that would finally impress his snooty sister. And these days with animal rights lunatics running amuck, real ivory was unobtainable. But if it was like half the old junk in this place it had probably been made long before he had even been born and might be the real stuff.

  His questing fingers drew out a slim, hand-carved flute. He was disappointed to notice it wasn’t ivory, as he hoped, merely bone but carved by an expert hand. Around most of the length were engraved tiny figures of people dancing.

  No, he held it up to the light. The figures appeared to be writhing in agony, each dying in a different graphically horrific way. He made out one fellow who seemed to be impaled on something. A woman nearby had been beheaded. It was quite macabre.

  He smiled: just the thing for old Robert. The jerk was always bragging about his collection of headhunter masks. This would be perfect.

  He took it to the counter.

  “How much?”

  “Wun hunna dollar.”

  “A hundred dollars!”

  The old man just nodded and smiled.

  Steve scowled. It was probably the suit. If he’d been wearing an old sweatshirt the guy probably wouldn’t have even asked for ten bucks. But he hadn’t made a fortune in brokerage fees by always accepting the first offer. Half an hour later he’d got him down to six dollars and sixty-six cents. He put that on his credit card and watched as the proprietor wrapped his treasure in a scrap of old burlap and tucked it into a plastic shopping bag with the logo of a bankrupt supermarket chain printed on it, one bag from a stack of hundreds more.

  On the way out he passed an old man in a dirty trenchcoat coming in. The man was balding, his face scarred and he was wearing an eye patch. All he needed was a parrot on one shoulder or a cutlass to look the part of a modern-day buccaneer. As the door closed behind Steve the man walked rapidly back to the chopstick bin and began scrabbling through the contents.

  Later at his apartment Steve unwrapped the flute. After wiping it down with a damp towel he took it into the living room and examined it under the light. The engravings were even more lurid than he remembered.

  “Whoever carved this was one sick son of a bitch.”

  Still, he lingered long over the pictures before blowing a few notes. To his surprise the flute sounded so melodious he felt compelled to play more. It seemed only minutes that he played as the sun set and darkness crept across the face of the Earth.

  Then there was a knock at the door.

  Annoyed at the interruption, he swung the door open. In the hall stood the one-eyed man in the trenchcoat.

  “Who the hell are you?” Steve demanded.

  The old man smiled, displaying years of neglected dental work.

  “Caine Adamson is the name. I’m sorry to disturb you on such a fine evening but you have an artifact that once belonged to me. I’m willing to offer a fine price for it.” He gestured at the flute in Steve’s hand.

  “I only bought it today. It’s a gift for my brother-in-law.” But as he spoke he realized he could never bear to part with it.

  “Please, sir,” said the old man. “I don’t think you realize what you have.”

  “All the more reason to hang onto it.” Steve began to close the door but the old man stuck his boot in the way.

  “Please sir, I’m begging you. At least let me tell you
what that flute is before you decide.”

  “You can tell me its origin?”

  The old man nodded, so Steve let him inside and ushered him into the kitchen.

  “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?” He took in the man’s unkempt appearance. “How about a beer?”

  “Yes, that would be good.”

  Steve set the flute on the counter by the sink and pulled a pair of bottles out of the fridge. He set one in front of his guest and sat nearby, opening his with a quick twist of the cap.

  Neither one spoke for nearly half a bottle.

  “You were going to tell me where that flute came from?”

  The old man nodded and set his beer on the table. “I made it.” He said.

  “Really? You’ve got clever hands.”

  “Aye, too clever for my own good sometimes.”

  “The detail you put into the engraving is incredible. But what sort of bone did you use? It’s too small to be elk or deer.”

  “It’s human.” He replied. “The left tibia.”

  “What?”

  “The bone itself is from the left shin of Abel, the first murder victim in all of history. That’s what makes it so special. It has both tremendous historical significance and occult power as well.”

  “What do you mean, the first murder victim?” Steve eyed the old man and then began to wonder what he had allowed so easily into his kitchen. A quick glance showed he was closer than the old man to the cutting block by the stove that held a selection of carving knives, and if it came to that, the man was more than twice his age.

  The old man nodded at his question.

  “Ah, yes. I can see why you don’t understand. These days the level of biblical literacy is abominably low. What I mean is, Abel from the account in the Bible of the creation of the world. In the beginning God created the Heavens and the Earth including the first two people: Adam and Eve. They had two sons, Cain and Abel. They got to fighting, as most brothers eventually do, and Cain murdered Abel. God cursed Cain for it, marking him and leaving him to wander the Earth.”