Tiny Tales of Terror

by Louise Ann Barton

  "Arcana is a desert planet, except for that forest. Isn’t it time the Arcane farmers found a way to irrigate their crops?" She kissed her daughter’s frowning forehead. "Think about it."

  By the time the game next resumed, Ariel announced, "Cameron’s village suffers a drought. Crops are dying. I must speak to the mayor."

  Arrion snarled, "The mayor is an NPC. Speak to me."

  Ariel entreated, "Let the people build a small dam. Before the fighting begins."

  "Granted," Arrion decreed, stifling a yawn.

  The next time the players met, Tommy’s howls filled their virtual world and the living room. "Mom! Tell her she can’t do that! She’s made all the villagers dam up the water fall. My sacred pond is empty. And now they worship a harvest goddess. So those invading army guys found my statue and smashed it!"

  "Trying to kill Ann’s character was just plain mean," his mother observed. "You only got what you deserve. And you can’t think she planned this. Think about it, Tommy. After all, she is only eight years old."

  Smirking triumphantly, Ann slid a blank character sheet across the table to Tommy.

  Then she began scribbling furiously, penciling in Ariel’s new, higher stats. And in the ‘Talents’ column, she wrote ‘God Slayer – and I’m only eight years old!’

  BACK TO TOP

  WEREWOLVES FOR BREAKFAST

  New York City, present day -in a public library meeting room

  "I eat werewolves for breakfast! And this is my kill."

  The author spoke the final lines of his novel and closed the cover.

  At first, there was no response from the other members of the Northside Library Writers’ Guild. Then slowly, very slowly, the woman seated across from him began to clap. The fellow in the blue jacket at the end of the table joined her. And then the applause became thunderous as everyone in the room rose, honoring the author’s latest publication.

  "Congratulations! You’ve done it again," Georgina gushed.

  Chuck clapped him on the back, booming, "When I hear a story that good, I know it’s a Gene Woodward." The others began to chime in.

  Gene tried to appear humble, but it was difficult. This was the best damn novel he’d ever written. He had a right to be insufferably proud. And the others continued to praise him. All save one.

  Herbie, a small, nervous, balding man with thick glasses and miniscule writing talent sat apart, seething at Gene’s success. When the great author finally tore himself free of his admirers and headed for the street, Herbie followed. He caught up, just as Gene reached the bus stop, and lunged forward.

  "Help me!" Herbie demanded, clutching Gene’s shoulder. "I want to write a novel like that."

  Gene drew back in alarm, realizing Herbie was stalking him again. Even though Herbie had never shown any promise as an author, Gene had kindly given the man occasional tips. But the guy was creepy and Gene wanted no part of him.

  "I’ve spent hours with you," Gene insisted. "Stayed with you after the meetings. Gave you special critiques and pointers." He glanced up and saw his bus bearing down on them. "Sorry, my bus is coming. See you next meeting." He turned and stepped off the curb.

  But Herbie would not be dissuaded and leapt after Gene. "No! Help me now!" And he crashed into Gene, who managed to keep his balance. He turned to face the little man. "Not now, Herbie. My wife is expecting me for dinner."

  Herbie lunged again, so frantically that Gene threw up his hands to protect himself. Gene was carrying several, short-story manuscripts in a tote bag, along with a copy of his latest book, and Herbie’s hand became entangled in the tote’s straps. Herbie’s struggles to break free thrust Gene backwards just as the bus pulled up.

  Before he could regain his footing, Gene slipped under the wheels of the bus, leaving Herbie staring in shocked horror. Then Herbie realized he’d been left holding the bag.

  A woman’s screams broke into his reverie. He jumped back onto the sidewalk and sprinted away, not stopping until he found the subway entrance and had pounded down the steps. He stood on the platform, the wind from the tunnel swirling around him and checked the contents of the tote. Within, there were six short stories, each in a separate folder, which Gene had yet to read to his fellow authors. And now he never would.

  But, Herbie realized, someone could. Someone could take those stories and key them into a computer, changing the author’s name. Yes, someone could, he mused and that someone might just as well be him. And without another thought to Gene, he hurried home to carry out those tasks.

  Of course, these purloined tales would have to be critiqued before one writers’ group or another, but certainly not before those at Northside Library. No, the Northsiders would certainly recognize Woodward’s style. So it would have to be another group entirely. Perhaps the Cranston branch. "And," he reasoned, "I can wear a disguise." He made a note to stop by the costume shop on his way home.

  At Cranston, he wore the fake goatee while reading the first story. At the Manor Hall branch, he wore the fake mustache and read the second story. At the Francis branch, he wore a baseball cap. And so it went.

  Herbie announced at the last meeting that he’d been able to find a publisher. The other members applauded his success and clapped him on the back. Only one fellow, Jerry Jackson, hung back from the crowd. But Herbie took no notice as he was beginning to enjoy the life of a successful author. And he left the library on his way to the subway.

  Jerry caught up, just as Herbie reached the lower-level platform, and lunged forward.

  "Help me!" Jerry demanded, clutching Herbie’s shoulder. "I want to be able to write like you."

  Herbie drew back in alarm, realizing Jerry had been stalking him. But Jerry had never shown any promise as an author and Herbie had no tidbits of wisdom to share. "I can’t help you," Herbie insisted. He glanced up and saw his train coming into the station. The wind whipped about them.

  "Sorry, my train is coming." He turned and stepped toward the platform’s edge.

  But Jerry wouldn’t be put off. He leapt after Herbie. "No! Help me now!" And he crashed into Herbie, who lost his balance, teetering on the brink of the platform.

  Herbie threw up his hands, trying to clutch hold of something to keep from falling onto the tracks, but his fingers found nothing to grasp. As he went over the edge, the tote bag containing Gene’s short stories flipped into the air. Jerry saw he could only grab one thing, either Herbie or the tote bag. And being a writer, Jerry lunged for the bag, snatching it in mid-air. He stared down in shocked horror as a whimpering Herbie was ground under the screeching wheels. Then a grin spread over Jerry’s face.

  He’d been left holding the bag.

  BACK TO TOP

  THE CURIOUS CASE OF WHITE CHAPEL ALLEY

  Whitechapel District, London - 1888

  "Murder or no, I’m not going down that alley in the dark," Constable Barnes insisted. "And you shouldn’t either."

  Inspector Cranford glared up at the man. "In-sub-ordin-ation," he said, drawing out the word, rain running off the brim of his bowler. Having just returned from her Majesty’s service he’d been newly assigned to this latest in a series of brutal murders in White Chapel Alley.

  "Begging your pardon, Inspector, no one who goes into that alley after dark has come out alive. You’ll not be getting anyone to go in there tonight. Best wait for daybreak."

  "I’ll have your pension, man!" He turned to Constable McBurn, who shrank back toward the street lamp.

  "Inspector, I have four children," McBurn begged. "We can go when it’s light and no harm done."

  "No harm done," the inspector thundered. "Why, the rats will have been at the remains by then. This downpour will wash away evidence."

  "Please, Inspector," coaxed the taller constable. "Sunup is in less than two hours. We can wait inside that tea shop, where it’s nice and dry, with an eye on the alley."

  By now the rain-soaked insp
ector was beginning to long for a hot cup of tea and allowed himself to be led through the puddles and into the shop.

  The proprietress greeted them with a toothless grin. Without waiting for their order, she placed three steaming cups of strong tea on one of the small tables.

  "Thought for a mo, you were actually goin’ down that alley," she chortled.

  "I fail to see the humor," Cranford snapped.

  "Oh, no one ever goes in there after dark. Not if they want to come out alive."

  The inspector grabbed her skinny wrist. "Tell me about it," he demanded. "Who’s responsible for these deaths?" She twisted frantically, but he held her fast.

  "All right," she moaned. "Something in there. After dark. Like the Ripper it is, but not human."

  "What does this murderer look like?"

  "Oh, sir, the only ones who’s seen it is dead."

  He released her. "Claptrap!" He started for the door. The constables blocked his path. The old woman began keening softly.

  "What is the matter with all of you?" Cranford demanded.

  "Begging your pardon, inspector," Barnes said, "when you see the body … after the sun comes up . . . you’ll understand."

  Cranford would have ordered them to stand down, but their eyes told him more than their lips ever could. Reluctantly, he took his seat and picked up his tea, wondering if the cup had been properly washed.

  With the first rays of sun, the men ventured into the alley. They poked about amongst the garbage and human waste until they came to the corpse. It was a man, lying on his back. His eyes were staring, mouth wide open as if he’d seen something horrible.

  The Chief Coroner’s examination revealed no wounds other than the marks on the victim’s left wrist, as if Death itself had gripped him with one bony hand. The coroner announced all those found in White Chapel Alley had met the same fate. "As if these poor blokes had been frightened to death. Not like the Ripper at all." And although the good inspector tried valiantly to uncover the person responsible, matters did not progress.

  Then a royal summons came to this former colonel, a welcome diversion, asking him to take part in an affair of state, replete in dress uniform and sword. After the affair, he departed for home. Despite the thick fog rolling in from the river, he decided not to hail a cab. He soon found himself in the White Chapel section. And he felt compelled to visit the alley.

  It was one in the morning as he hurried along in splendid dress, his sword at his side. His footsteps echoed in the empty streets as he located first the dirty, little tea shop and then the alley. Cranford withdrew his sword and strode up to its mouth. Made confident by Scotch, he shouted to whatever might be lurking inside.

  "I am Inspector Cranford and a former colonel of her Majesty’s Service. Come out now! Let’s have a look at you!"

  At first only silence greeted his shouts and he felt foolish. But then he heard it. A rustling. As if someone small and feeble, was shuffling towards him. He froze in fear, under the street lamp, waiting.

  To his surprise, a tiny, old woman draped in a shawl crept closer in the dark, stopping just inside the alley and held out one hand. She wore a long dress, with an apron. Her head and face were covered by a ruffled, white-cotton bonnet. She didn’t speak, but Cranford thought she needed help. He took a step closer and still she didn’t move. She motioned for him to come to her. And so he did.

  He had no sooner stepped into the alley, when the creature’s hand lashed out. Just bones it was, without flesh, and it gripped his wrist. He gasped, but couldn’t break free. She began dragging him, deeper down the alley, into the darkness. The darkness from which no one had ever returned.

  With a mighty shout, he swung the sword, cleaving the bonnet free. She had no head, no face, and the bonnet fell limply, back into the alley. But still that skeletal hand gripped him, dragging him, step by step, into the darkness. In desperation, he lashed out again, severing her hand at the wrist. As her body reeled backward, Cranford took to his heels. He didn’t stop until he reached the coroner’s office.

  It took all the coroner’s skill and several trusty instruments to pry that dead hand from Cranford’s wrist. Within 24 hours, White Chapel Alley was ordered bricked solid and Cranford announced he was done forever with soldiering and criminal investigations. Inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Cranford became an author. His first story for the Penny Dreadful was "The Curious Case of White Chapel Alley."

  BACK TO TOP

  OVER THE MEADOW & THROUGH THE WOOD

  A dark, deserted Russian forest, winter - 1870

  My brother, Lev, and I were traveling to Grandmother’s estate with the greatest urgency. The wealthiest man in St. Petersburg, Sasha Kameroff had expressed an interest in me. Our first meeting was to take place in my widowed grandmother’s home during the holidays. Carefully chaperoned, we would get to know one another and, if we found each other pleasing, our marriage contract would be drawn up.

  To look most alluring, I wore a ermine hat and cloak over a green-velvet gown, so my intended would see that I, Anya, was a young lady of quality. He would see my expensive jewelry and learn of my large dowry. And as a gift to Grandmother, I’d tucked a large ham, mutton, and a wheel of cheese under the sleigh’s passenger seat.

  As our traditional Russian troika sleigh, with its three strong horses harnessed abreast went gliding along the snowy roads, the driver was ever mindful to crack his whip to spur the team on. Glancing fearfully about, he shouted, "Night is coming on! We must make the next village before . . ."

  "Before what?" I demanded.

  "Wolves, my lady. They hunt in packs and will come for us when darkness falls."

  "Wolves?" I whispered, peering anxiously about. This was supposed to have been a happy occasion, a good match ensuring my future, not a death-risking adventure. How could my parents have sent me on such a journey? Why had they not arranged for my intended to come to me instead. But Lev had offered his protection.

  The snow began falling again, a thick curtain of flakes that blotted out landmarks and the road. In a short time, this became a blizzard, darkening the skies. By now, the sleigh was flying along so quickly it seemed we might overturn and I cried out in fear. As if in answer, a mournful howl drifted across the night and, to my horror, a wolf appeared just ahead of the sleigh. Lev drew a pistol from his coat and took aim. One crack and the beast collapsed in the snow.

  "Pray that his fellows did not hear him," our driver spat out and drove the team even harder.

  But God did not answer our prayer for, a minute later, another howl sounded from the woods. And then another. And another. Eerie, musical, their song filled the night. The whole pack had been alerted and they were coming for us! My scream was drowned out by the driver’s shouts. Lev was trying to reload his weapon, complaining "These pistols only hold one shot." But reloading was a clumsy operation at best and, before he could complete the task, three wolves appeared, running behind the sleigh. Two more loped behind them and eerie howls sounded behind the trees.

  "The village is very near," the driver said. "We need to delay them." Turning to face me, he instructed, "You must throw them the meat." I glanced behind and saw the first three gaining. "Now! Do it now!" he shouted. And, unhappily forced to make this sacrifice, I managed to drag the mutton from beneath the seat. By the time I was able to jettison the meat, the nearest wolf was fairly snapping at my face. The frozen mass struck the beast and he went down, his comrades piling on top of him.

  With our tormentors thus occupied, our sleigh sped along, rocking crazily, my shrieks filling the night. Then we realized one wolf had not delayed with the rest and was almost on top of Lev. My brother raised the now-loaded pistol and caught the beast between the eyes. The creature slipped from sight and Lev began to reload.

  "Just two miles more! And we will be safe!" the driver panted. But the wolves, having disposed of the mutton, were again in pursuit. Lev leaned
forward in his seat, the better to dispatch the nearest wolf, but still they came. "Throw them the rest of the meat," the driver insisted. With a heavy heart, panting with effort, I tossed out the ham. The wolves fell upon this and our sleigh raced on.

  "Just a half-mile more," the driver assured us, when the rest of the pack appeared. Some blocked our path while others raced up behind. The horses shied in fear, but the driver’s grip on the reins was strong. "Throw them the rest of the meat," he shouted, "or we are dead." But there wasn’t any more meat and surely they didn’t eat cheese. Then I felt Lev grip my arm.

  To my surprise, he lifted me from my seat and threw me from the sleigh. Even though the snow was soft, I landed hard, the breath knocked from me. My beautiful, ermine hat and one boot fell off and became lost in a drift. One of my heirloom rings slipped from my finger. And the wolves turned on me. Allowing the sleigh to speed on, they formed an ever-tightening circle, their breath turning to white clouds in the icy air.

  I saw the sleigh disappearing from sight and cried out in anguish, "Lev! Help me!" But the only sound was that of the approaching wolves, panting for having chased us so far.

  *

  Upon reaching Grandmother’s house, Lev was able to shed real tears. He recounted how frightened little Anya had become that she’d tumbled out of the speeding sleigh.

  "The driver was too busy with the horses to notice she was gone. By the time I looked back, the wolves had her." Then he collapsed, seemingly overcome by grief. Lev’s Grandmother was so touched by his loss that she had a new will drawn up, leaving everything to him. The young heir didn’t have long to wait for, not three weeks later, his devoted grandmother died in her sleep.

  "And that," he smiled to himself, "is how one pays one’s gambling debts."

  BACK TO TOP

  THE VAMPIRE IN THE MIRROR

  New York - New Orleans - Venice - 2011

  Champagne flutes held high, my friends toasted my latest tour. Had I called them friends? More like those who rode on the coattails of my success.

  "To the Growler, King of Rock," Kerrin my manager announced, referring to my snarling, growling, howling, singing style. As an aside, he snapped "Get outta of that costume so Colin can have it cleaned."