IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHt
...
A COLLECTION OF HORROR PARODIES
EDITED BY
SHANE MCKENZIE
Copyright © 2011 by Pill Hill Press
eBook Edition
All stories contained in this volume have been published with permission from the authors.
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the authors. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * * * *
Dear Shane,
Unfortunately, I will be unable to provide an introduction for the anthology It Was A Dark And Stormy Night. Sorry about that. I’ll wire the money back to your account, I’ve already sent back the company limo, I only ate two apples out of the fruit basket, and...well, I’m not sure how to undo the night with the prostitutes. We’ll work something out.
I wish I could say that I was just too busy, but I’m not. Hell, I’ve checked Facebook four times since I started writing this. Ultimately, my decision not to provide the introduction I promised comes from the fact that you are a reprehensible lying bastard.
Don’t try to look all innocent. You know what I mean. You purposely misled me into believing that this was a collection of deeply serious, introspective stories with high literary merit. What else could it be, when the title was inspired by the writings of Snoopy, the greatest writer who ever lived? In addition to defending our country and looking way cooler than you ever will, Snoopy created works of lasting value and thematic depth, which you have shamed with this compilation of...of...of...horror spoofs.
To be fair, if I were the kind of person who enjoyed satire and/or parody, I’d admit that this book provides everything I could ever want. All of the horror bases are covered: zombies, vampires, werewolves, mummies, serial killers, infectious diseases, rednecks, gypsies, Satan, and Death. Also chickens, which may not sound scary but I bet you wouldn’t put one in a crib with your newborn child. And sperm. Gotta love the story about sperm.
But then there’s the final story, “Don’t Go In The House!” about which the only acceptable reaction is “Dude, what the hell is the matter with you?!?” I know what you’re going to say, Shane: “I didn’t write it. Matt Kurtz did.” But ultimately YOU are responsible for its inclusion, and YOU are the one who decided that other humans needed to read such a thing, and YOU will suffer the consequences.
So, to summarize, I’m not writing your damn introduction. Find somebody else to contribute to your non-Pulitzer-bound poppycock. The next time I see you in person, I’m going to break a lobster over your head.
Get bent.
Sincerely,
Jeff Strand
Welcome To Deadtown
by Joseph Zieja
A branch poked John in the eye. This struck him as strange, as he was fairly certain there were no trees in his kitchen. But here was one now, assaulting his face.
In fact, he couldn’t recall there being any rocks, gravel roads, owls, or large, impossibly steep hills in his kitchen either. And certainly none with a giant, heavily buttressed stone castle looming ominously at the top. A lightning bolt scored the sky, leaving a purple streak in the air as it crossed the tallest spire of the castle.
“Where am I?” he said. He had been in his kitchen just a moment ago—he was sure of it. Braising chicken breasts on a skillet and baking rolls in the oven. Suzanne was coming for dinner tonight.
A long, winding path narrowed to a point on its way up to the base of a castle. Nebulous debris littered the road, some of it glistening softly in the light of the full moon. Turning around, he saw the dim lights of a city not more than a mile off. Some animal instinct told him that going to the city was a better choice than trudging up the hill to the shadowy, evil-looking mansion.
It wasn’t long before he approached a large, wooden sign, on which was scrawled in hurried, dark lettering:
-WELCOME TO DEADTOWN-
(Sister City to Detroit)
Deadtown? Who on Earth would name a city something so ridiculous? John found himself unable to do anything but stare at the sign and wonder.
His reverie was shattered by the voice of a man with a thick southern accent speaking to his left.
“Ain’t gonna find nothin’ but death here, son,” he said through crooked, broken teeth and ragged breaths. The nearly unintelligible man sat on a small rocking chair on the front porch of a rickety old house. Old, rotted wood, stripped bare of paint, looked on the verge of collapse, the rocking chair emitting small creaking noises in a steady rhythm. It seemed in contrast with the tall shadows of ordinary modern buildings in the distance. How had he not noticed it when he approached?
“What do you mean?” John said.
“Hafta see it fer yerself,” the man said with a wheezy cackle. “And you got no choice now. Old Francis Stone’s got the place under his claws. Nobody leaves ‘less he says so. You neither.”
John swallowed hard. “Who are you? Do you…live here?” He pointed at the creepy house.
“Hell no!” the man cried with a deep belly laugh. His accent had completely vanished. “I live in the city with everyone else. We have one of us at each entrance to town. Part of the atmosphere, you know? But in all seriousness—it’s pretty messed up in there.”
John nodded slowly, though he really had no idea what the man was talking about. He obviously wasn’t going to find any answers here. Mumbling something between thanks and a hasty goodbye, John walked into town.
“Nothin’ but death!” the southern voice wailed from behind him.
***
Deadtown looked normal enough if you ignored the body parts lining the streets like the aftermath of a twisted ticker-tape parade. John felt his stomach turning as he looked over the horrified, frozen faces of the occasional severed head. Blood ran in the gutters like rich, viscous wine. The smell was educational.
Other than the mess, the streets were empty. Buildings with broken windows had doors swinging on their hinges in the light breeze. Every few moments, John thought he heard the scraping of dragged footsteps or the incoherent mumbling of someone too far away to really understand.
And he was pretty sure someone was playing an old pipe organ somewhere in the distance.
Suppressing the urge to vomit, John tried to find some place that looked at least somewhat safe. A neon sign sporting the words “Deadtown Inn” flickered just up the abandoned street. Lights glowed inside, and he could see shadows moving past them. Maybe he’d find some answers there.
As he entered, a pale-faced, lanky receptionist wearing a too-large suit greeted him with an indifferent look. He reached under the counter and casually produced two items: a hotel room key and a double barreled shotgun, both of which he pointed at John.
John hit the floor with a yelp, diving out of the line of fire. He landed face down with his arms futilely covering his head, his heart somewhere in between his nose and his throat. No shotgun blasts rang through the air.
“You can get up now,” came the slow drawl of a lazy, tired voice.
John peeled his arms off his face and drew himself up. The young man behind the counter, a blank expression on his face, had put the shotgun away and was now only offering him the room key.
“What the hell was that for?”
“Sir, I’ve been working here a long time,” the man said with the tone of one addressing the intellectually inferior, “and every person
who comes in here is one of two things: a stranded tourist needing a room or a flesh-eating monster. Some walk the fine line in between, and it can get rather confusing. So I just started pulling out a key and a gun together. It saves me time. Now, if you please, room nineteen, straight down the hallway to the left.”
“I don’t need a room,” John said, “I have a house, with a kitchen, where the rolls are probably black by now. I just need to get out of here.”
The receptionist sighed. “Nobody leaves unless Mr. Stone lets them. And he’s never let anyone leave.” He proffered the key again. “Room nineteen, sir.”
John took the room key, feeling somewhere between horribly afraid and horribly confused. If this Francis Stone was the only man who knew the way out of this insanity, he’d have no choice but to find him.
Room nineteen looked about as standard as any other hotel room that John had ever seen. He went into the bathroom and turned on the tap. Thankfully, the water didn’t look or taste like blood as he splashed it over his face.
The bathroom light started to flicker.
John paused with a handful of water halfway to his face. It slipped through the cracks in his fingers and dribbled to the sink with hollow plunking noises. He saw in the mirror that the light in the bedroom was flickering as well, out of synch with the bathroom.
As suddenly as it began, the flickering stopped. The lights were on again, their yellow glow making the dingy room look both homely and unwelcoming simultaneously. John let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding.
He heard a thud outside the bathroom door. Someone else was in the room.
Light, slow breathing came from right outside the bathroom. It sounded almost like the gentle snoring of a sleeping child.
John frantically looked around the bathroom for a weapon, but found only a clean white towel. Not much of a defense, but he grabbed it anyway, thinking to perhaps use it to strangle any would-be assailant. Cautiously, slowly, with beads of sweat and tap water intermingling on his cheeks, he stepped out of the bathroom.
A man in a hockey mask was standing slumped over near the light switch, one hand resting on top of it. A large kitchen knife was embedded in the ground point-first. It looked like it had fallen out of the man’s limp hand.
He was snoring. The man was fast asleep. Slow, even breaths whistled through the air holes of the hockey mask. John knelt down, picked up the kitchen knife, and positioned the point of it at the base of the mask, trying to slowly peel it upwards without actually touching the man.
“Waaah!” The man jumped backward and fell down. The mask flew off his face, revealing a frightened man in his mid-forties. He stared at John accusingly.
“The hell do you think you’re doing?” the man said. “Trying to kill me?”
“What? What the hell were you doing outside my bathroom door with this?” John pointed the blade at the man. He paused for a moment and looked at the light switch that the man had been near. Something dawned on him. “Were you…turning my lights on and off?”
The man’s face flushed. “I was just trying to build the suspense,” he mumbled.
“Suspense for what?”
“I’m a serial killer,” the man said, looking deeply offended. “At least I was until Stone came in. I was the only game in town for terror and prank phone calls until he showed up with his…” He suddenly trailed off, his eyes closing. His head began to nod back and forth, and his jaw went slack as he slowly sank backward to the floor. He’d fallen asleep again.
“Wake up!” John’s patience was wearing thin.
The man snapped back into consciousness and sat up. He looked confused.
“You’re a narcoleptic serial killer?” John said incredulously.
“So what?” the man said, getting to his feet and pointing a long finger at John’s face. “I bet you have your flaws too, buddy. Besides, I never said I was a good serial killer. What’s your story?”
“I’m just trying to get the hell out of here.”
“Looks like we both have reasons to hate Stone,” the man said. “Hey, why don’t we team up?” He extended a hand. “Dominick Jefferson. Just call me Dom.”
John looked at Dom’s hand for a moment, wondering if this was really happening. Then he shrugged and took it.
“John,” he said. “Nice to meet you. Try to refrain from killing me.”
***
“We don’t really know where he came from,” Dom said. They had exited the hotel and were walking down one of the empty streets while Dom pointed out some of the sights of Deadtown, if one could consider death and destruction as “sights.” John had wisely kept the knife.
“He just showed up one day, moved into that castle, and started sending down hordes of monsters into the city at random, slashing up the townsfolk, eating their flesh, drinking blood. Pretty standard stuff. Now nobody can leave unless he gives them permission. So, if you want to get home, you’ll have to go through him.”
John rubbed his hand through his hair. This was a complete mess. He’d definitely missed dinner with Suzanne by now, and he could picture her furious face as she rang the doorbell with no answer. On top of that, it appeared he’d been trapped in a horror movie.
“Some say he’s half vampire, half werewolf, half zombie.”
A really, really bad horror movie.
“That’s not even possible,” John said. “Aside from the fact that none of those things exist, you can’t be half of three things.”
Dom glared at him. “Well aren’t you Mr. Calculus? I’m just telling you what they say.”
A gunshot rang out from behind them, and John once again found himself on the ground with his hands over his head, small chunks of mortar and plaster peppering his hair.
“You two are lucky I missed,” came a voice from behind him.
John lifted his head to see a large, muscular man in a camouflage tank-top and jeans walking toward them holding an assault rifle of some kind, its barrel still smoking. Leather belts crisscrossed in the center of his bulging pectorals, sporting rows of ammunition and two grenades. A large pistol gleamed in the moonlight from its holster on the side of his leg, and John could see the butt of a shotgun protruding from the top of the man’s shoulders behind his back.
“I want him on my side,” Dom muttered, who didn’t seem at all disturbed by being shot at.
“I thought you were some of the monsters,” the man said, voice rough and low as he approached. His dark eyes looked past John, slightly over his shoulder. John glanced backward but saw nothing.
“Well, uh,” John said, dusting off his pants, “thanks for being a poor shot.”
The military man was still looking over John’s shoulder at nothing. It made John feel uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” the man said, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes taking on a hollow, haunted look. “That’s what they said on the Farm, too.” Without any further explanation, he turned around and whistled.
Five things emerged from behind a building nearby: three men and two breasts. Of the three men, one appeared to be wearing priests’ robes, and another a lab coat. The third, a man of indistinguishable ethnicity, was wearing a transparent green visor and a t-shirt that proclaimed “I Love Deadtown.” An expensive-looking camera dangled from a strap around his neck.
The woman that was attached to the two giant mounds on her chest was wearing a tight pink t-shirt and equally tight jeans, complete with a pair of stiletto boots that looked extremely difficult to walk in. She looked terrified, her full red lips turned down in a quivering frown. Running forward, she clung desperately to the heavily-armed man’s thick waist.
“Who are you people?” John said.
“You can call me…El Nabo,” the man with all of the weapons said.
John frowned. “You want me to call you ‘The Turnip’?” He’d taken his fair share of Spanish lessons. The man with the weapons didn’t seem to hear him, however. He just kept staring off into the distance, his eyes narrow and his
jaw set. John decided not to press the issue further.
“I’m Father Reus,” the priest said. “But I’ve lost my faith. And I have suspicions that you’re cooperating with Stone—mostly because I fear the unfamiliar.”
“I, uh, hope you find it, and thanks for the vote of confidence.” John nodded slowly. How did one respond to something like that?
“Dr. Thompson,” the man in the lab coat said, nodding at him. He had a nervous look in his eyes that made John want to avoid touching him. “Mad—yet questionably reformed—scientist.”
“I’m Bebe,” the woman said, finally losing her grip on El Nabo. “Let’s split up.”
“What?” John said.
“Don’t mind her,” Father Reus said. “She’ll suggest that every once in a while, but if you ignore her for long enough she’ll stop talking.”
The man with the camera grinned. “Pyotr Abu Xiao-Ping Schmidt. I am tourist for Deadtown.”
What in the world kind of accent—or name, for that matter—was that?
“Right,” John said. “I’m John, and this here is Dominick. He’s a serial killer.”
“Oh, we know him,” Dr. Thompson said. “How many times have you tried to kill me now, Dom? Three?”
“Four.” A proud grin painted Dom’s face. “Last time I made it all the way into the lab before I fell asleep in the ventilation shaft. Thanks for getting me out of there, by the way.”
Dr. Thompson shrugged.
El Nabo’s head suddenly jerked to the side, then slowly turned his gaze back to rest just slightly over John’s left shoulder, eyes still narrow.
“What the hell are you looking at?” John finally blurted, looking over his own shoulder. There was nothing there.
“He is always doing this. We no figure out. It is great mystery of El Nabo,” Pyotr said, barely comprehendible.
“I’m just trying to get the hell out of this town and back to my house,” John sighed.
It Was a Dark and Stormy Night... Page 1
