The Collected Horrors of Tim Wellman

by Tim Wellman

  "Best idea, yet," Jack said. "Let's just huddle in the woods tonight, and then we can call the authorities in the morning." He patted Brice on the cheek. "I really am sorry about Jennifer."

  "Why?" Jennifer said, standing at the top of the stairs.

  Anna and Jack were speechless. "Huh?!"

  "This diary is really cool," Brice said. "Whatever you write after Judith wrote in it, happens." He turned the page. "Jennifer was only scratched on the arm."

  "And it hurts like hell!" she said. "Why couldn't you have written that I landed on pillows?"

  "Sorry, I was afraid the blood would disappear from the page."

  "You did good," Anna said.

  He tossed the book into the water on the cellar floor and it disintegrated immediately. "Too much power for us regular mortals to keep, right?"

  They all stood for a moment and stared at the scene, and then walked up the steps and stepped back into the real world as Jennifer started singing. "The water is wide, I can't cross o'er; nor do I have light wings to fly; give me a boat that can carry two; and both shall row, my love and I."

  "What's it like to be dead?" Anna said.

  "Stings a little," Jennifer said.

  Behind The Wall

  Very little bothered Violet Marcum. She had sat in the same wheel chair for years, apparently paralyzed, unable to speak, and though no one was completely certain, unable to hear or experience anything in the sensory world. Her eyes were always open; her mouth accepted the spoonfuls of food, mostly pasty cereals, when offered. But, otherwise, she was a warm corpse. She required constant attention, not the least of which was emptying her potty, fitted beneath her chair, several times a day. Victoria Marcum hated her with every fiber of her being. It wasn't a personal hate, really, she had not even met the old woman, her great grand mother, until her seventh birthday. Her mother, Stella, unable to stand her father any longer, was offered her family home in the sleepy, park area of Huntston, West Virginia, as refuge with the one caveat that she care for her grandmother until her death. Victoria was now a few months short of her ninth birthday and couldn't fathom the thought of the smelly old woman any longer. She had had enough.

  "Victoria!" her mother yelled. She pounded on her bedroom door. "Get up, it's nearly eight!"

  But she had been awake for hours, thinking. The darkness gave way to dawn's long pale shadows and in turn the break of harsh sunlight brought the room back from its nightly encasement, but Victoria was no closer to an answer. A thousand ideas clicked in her head like a card in a bicycle spoke, but none stood out, none seemed viable. Murder was difficult. "I'm up!" She slipped her legs over the edge of the bed and stretched her arms as she yawned and then shook her fingers through her short blonde hair. "It's summer vacation," she said. "Why do I need to get up this early?"

  "Hurry up!" Stella said. "You know how you hate cold fried eggs."

  By the time she got down to breakfast, her mother was already busy tending to the old woman. Every fork full of egg and sausage caused Victoria pain. Her throat was tight, her hatred was palpable. "Mom, you forgot my toast," she said. "Tend to the living, not the dead," she said under her breath. "Mom?!"

  "I'm busy, Vic!"

  "Fine," she said. "I'll just starve to death." She chased a bit of egg around her plate with a fork. "Can we go to the park today?!"

  Her mom came back through the kitchen door and washed her hands in the sink. "I can't afford to call anyone to sit with gramma today," she said. "We'll have to stay home."

  Victoria dropped her head and took a deep breath. "Okay."

  "Hey, don't take it like that," she said.

  "How am I supposed to take it?!"

  "Less like a spoiled, selfish little brat would be good," her mom said.

  "Yeah, whatever," Victoria said. "I'm finished eating," she said. She hopped down from the dinette chair and walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a plastic bottle of juice. "Can I go to the park alone?"

  "No!"

  "But mom, Becky is going to be there..."

  "No!" she said. "It's bad enough you have to walk to school alone, but the park is in an even worse neighborhood. If you go out, stay on our street."

  "But everyone on our street is retarded," she said.

  "But I know their families," her mom said. "Retarded and safe is a lot better than smart and dangerous."

  But Victoria liked the idea of being smart and dangerous. It would take a smart and dangerous mind to come up with a good plan for removing the smelly lump in the middle of the living room. "Fine," she said. "But how can you be afraid of anything outside when we're living with a zombie?"

  "That's enough, Vic!" her mom said. "There's a great big yard out back, go play!"

  "It's empty; there's nothing out there to play with," she said.

  "Then just go walk around in circles until you're tired," her mom said.

  "Fine!" she yelled, and stormed out of the room. As she passed the old woman she pointed, then pulled her finger across her throat. "Your days are numbered!" She walked past and into the old cloakroom that had been converted at some point to the old woman's craft room, but it had the nearest door leading to the backyard. Lining the walls was her life's work: dolls. The old woman had apparently spent most of her life, when she still had a working body, making the things. Big and small, all cloth, hand sewn, meticulously detailed. Victoria hated them, too. They were the old woman's real children, her spawn, as lifeless and annoying as she was. She opened the door and stepped outside into the heat of the June morning.

  Though there was a tall privacy fence, the trees, rooftops, and surrounding hills were visible. A few gray squirrels, practically pets, scampered along the lower limbs of the big oak tree that had been the focus of the yard for a hundred years or more. Victoria kicked a dandelion seedhead, and then took a deep breath and sat down on the cement step. "There's nothing out here," she said. "There's nothing out here, mom!" She laughed to herself. "Mom? I don't even have a mom anymore." She looked at her hands. "Do I have the guts? Could I kill someone?"

  "Vic!"

  Frightened, she jumped up and whirled around. "Mom!" She let out a hard breath. "You scared me!"

  "Sorry," she said. "Hey, an emergency has come up at the restaurant; one of the waitresses didn't show up. I've got to go to work for a couple of hours."

  "Is anyone coming over to watch the old woman?" Victoria said.

  "No, sweetheart, I told you I can't afford to pay anyone until I get my check," she said. "So, do you think you can stay here? I'll be back before noon."

  "Alone?" Victoria said.

  "Yes, just please promise me to stay in the house and keep the doors locked," she said. "Don't open the door for anyone you don't know."

  "I'm not going near the old woman," she said. She followed her mom back into the house, past the dolls, and into the kitchen.

  "You don't have to go near her, just listen in case she makes any kind of noise, okay?" she said. "You wouldn't want her to choke or anything, right?" Her mother shuffled through a few papers on top of the refrigerator. "Ah, here," she said and handed Victoria a piece of paper. "That's the number at work and my cell."

  "I know your cell number, mom," she said. "I'm not a little kid."

  "You are a little kid," she said. "So, be a good little kid!" She walked through the house as Victoria followed, and grabbed her purse. "I'll be back by noon. I'll bring you your favorite, the roast beef platter." She waved as she opened the front door, checked the lock, and then closed it behind her.

  Victoria was alone. But no, not alone, the old woman was there. Even if her senses were dead, her eyes blind, her ears stopped, she was there. She listened for her mother's car to pull away from the curb and whine across the old brick pavement until she was sure she was gone. She suddenly spun around and pointed at her. "Hah! Now you die!"

  The old woman's expression didn't change. Her breathing didn't change. She had not reacted to the words or the girl pointing.

  "You're alrea
dy dead, aren't you," Victoria said. "A zombie; the living dead, just like those stupid horrible dolls of yours." She walked closer and bent down. "What is it like? What goes on behind the wall, great gramma? How can you continue living when you must know everyone hates you."

  She got a little closer and then suddenly, with no warning, no expression, the old woman reached out and grabbed Victoria by the wrist. The little girl screamed, terrified, and screamed again until all the air had escaped from her lungs. She gasped, tears literally dripping from her eyes, and tried to shear the old woman's grip from her arm. She pounded the woman's hand, pushed and twisted, all the while still screaming between tortured gasps for breath. And then, as suddenly as it had happened, she loosened her grip, causing Victoria to stumble backward. And after a failed attempt to stop, she fell firmly on her butt. She sat crying, breathing as well as she could, shocked at what had happened. "How?!" She screamed. "How can you move?!" She squirmed to move a little further away. "You freak!"

  There was no response from the old woman. Her expression was still the same, her breathing the same. Her arm had dropped back onto the rest and the room seemed unusually quiet now, now that the screaming had stopped. Victoria used the padded arm of the sofa to pull herself up on her feet and then quickly sat down on the arm, the furthest point in the room away from the old woman, before her wobbling legs gave out. She sat in the heavy silence and stared at the oddity. If she could move her arm, why couldn't she move the rest of her body? It didn't make sense and she was beginning to believe she may have just imagined the last several minutes. But the marks, the outlines of bony fingers on her wrist, were proof enough.

  The doorbell rang, sending her to the floor again. "Dammit!"

  "Hey, munchkin, it's me!" someone yelled through the door. It was Becky. "Stella called and asked if I could come and check up on ya!"

  She literally ran to the door and opened it. "Becky!"

  "Hey, what's wrong, shortie?" she said as she walked through the door. Her features, frail body, and dark bobbed hair made her look younger, but she had just turned seventeen. She was the coolest girl in the neighborhood and Victoria adored her. She always dressed in black, was addicted to horror movies, and seemed to talk about nothing but dark things. But, she would work for less than the regular sitter so she got the job occasionally. "The old lump attack ya?" It had been a running joke between them. They had sometimes even set up elaborate scenes using the old dolls, throwing them at the old woman as if they were demons attacking her. But the teenager couldn't stand the old woman, either, and wouldn't go near her on the days she spent at the house even though part of her job was to keep an eye on her.

  She nodded and showed Becky the marks on her arm.

  Becky grabbed her arm and looked closely. "Yep, definitely made by a zombie," she said. "She didn't bite you, did she?" She laughed and walked into the kitchen as Victoria followed. "Any pop in the fridge?"

  "I'm serious," Victoria said. "Something happened. I got too close to her and she grabbed me." She started crying and ran to Becky and hugged her. "She wouldn't let go!"

  "Hey, hey," Becky said. She took a big drink of root beer and burped. "Don't worry, let's check it out. Probably some muscle contraction or something. I used to get them all the time when I was pitching softball. For no reason at all my hand would just reach out and grab another girl on the butt."

  "I'm being serious," Victoria said. "Do you think she can actually see and hear?"

  "Naw, we tested that before, right?" Becky said. "I keep telling you she's an old, stinky lump that stole your mom and leaves you shit."

  "Mom said she didn't have enough money to pay anyone," she said. "Why did you come?"

  "Well, she called me and we worked something out," she said. "I don't need the cash this week, anyway. And I couldn't have you here by yourself with the old witch, right?" She picked up a knife from the counter and held it up. "Wanna do it?"

  "You mean kill her?" Victoria said. "Now?"

  Becky headed toward the living room. "I'm just kidding. But let's push her into the closet like last time, I want to watch TV." She noticed the old woman's hand, bruised and swollen where Victoria had attempted to break free. "Woah! What the heck did you do to her?"

  "She wouldn't let go, I had to fight back!" Victoria said. "It wasn't my fault!" She pointed her finger at the old woman. "Bitch! Mother stealer!"

  "I think your mom is going to notice that, though," she said. "You still want to kill her, don't you?"

  "More and more every second," she said. "I just don't know if I can. I'm a little girl."

  "Do you really want her dead?" she said. She squatted down in front of Victoria and draped an arm over her shoulder. "Really? Would you take this knife and stab her while I take pictures?"

  Victoria nodded. "Even if I went to jail forever," she said. "She stole my life, anyway. I have nothing left."

  "Well, tough, you can't 'cause I was just kidding," Becky said and jumped up. "Hey, stinky lump, you want to be killed?" She stepped into the other room and quickly returned with one of the dolls. She put the knife to its throat and then sliced, cutting into the stuffing. "You pissed off, shitbox?" She pushed the knife into the opening, and sliced along the fabric. "I'm killing your babies!"

  The old woman showed no emotions. She simply stared straight ahead.

  "Can you hear me?" Becky said. She got closer and bent down so that her face was only inches away from the old woman's face. "Knock knock!" She banged her knuckles on the old woman's forehead. "See, empty," she said as she looked back at Victoria. "I wonder how much it would take for her to aagggg!"

  As Becky turned back around, the old woman lifted her hand, either purposefully or involuntarily, and had grabbed Becky's neck with a firm grip. She was squeezing harder and harder, hard enough to make Becky drop the knife and worry only about her own survival. She struggled, gripped the old woman's arm, and tried to pull it away, but the fingers kept hold, breaking into her flesh, and Becky watched her own blood trailing down the old woman's arm. She waved her arms around like a swimmer going down for the last time, but then suddenly there was a loud crash and the old woman's hand dropped as she slumped over and fell forward and onto the floor. Becky gasped for breath and fell to her knees. As she looked up, Victoria was standing behind the old wheel chair, holding the broken rim of a large glass vase. The rest was in shards around the chair and embedded in the old woman's skull.

  "I..." She dropped the rim and ran around to Becky. "Are you okay?"

  Becky looked up. "Do I fucking look okay?" She tried to stand but stumbled, and then tried again and with the help of the sofa arm, steadied herself. She grabbed her neck and rubbed around in the blood. "Nothing went through my neck," she said. She then started coughing and threw up all over the floor. "Fuck!"

  Victoria was noticeably shaking, as broken as the vase. She tried to speak, but as she looked around, no words came out. All she could do was stand, her arms at her sides, and stare.

  Becky spit several times and grabbed a cushion from the sofa and held it to her neck. "You killed her."

  "I, no, I..."

  "Now listen to me, okay?" Becky said. "It was self-defense. We need to call the police and tell them exactly what happened. The old bitch just snapped and tried to kill me and you had to hit her with the vase to stop her." She tried to smile. "Right? I mean that's what really happened. Whatever the fuck we were talking about before this happened doesn't matter."

  "But she heard us all the time, didn't she?" Victoria sat down on the sofa and looked up at Becky. Her eyes were wide open, her breath was more like a tired dog panting. "Is she really dead?"

  Becky narrowed her eyes. "Of course! No one could take a hit like that," she said. "Part of her brain is coming out." She tossed the pillow on the floor and then dropped down to her knees and grabbed the old woman's wrist. "See, there's no pul...."

  But before she could finish the word, the old woman jerked her hand upward, thrusting the knife through Becky's
neck. She backed up and as the knife slid out, blood literally shot out like a water fountain, spraying the old woman and Victoria, and indeed, most of the room. She tried to get to her feet, but it was futile. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed on top of the old woman. She didn't move again. There was no sound, not even from Victoria.

  The young girl remained seated, staring at nothing. She seemed to have simply been switched off. And that's how her mother found her.

  The police had concluded that somehow the old woman had snapped out of her paralysis and gone mad, perhaps not even knowing the girls in her house were supposed to be there. Becky was a hero, attempting to fight off the insane attacker. And Victoria, it was decided, was very lucky to have survived at all, even though she probably didn't realize it. But her mother felt, on warm days when she pushed her wheel chair in front of the big window and surrounded her with the old dolls, that she must, behind the blank staring eyes, realize she was alive. She must feel something.

  Eaters

  It had been another rotten day and Emily took the long way home through the old abandoned saw mill to avoid running into anyone else. Forced to eat a bug, again, but those three girls who held her down would pay this time. Emily had had enough. All she needed was a plan and one had been forming in her mind for weeks and today came the final blow, it was time to put it into action. She looked behind her but no one was following and even if the bullies had seen her go into the mill yard they wouldn't have followed. She was the only kid in the neighborhood unafraid of the stories and myths about the place.

  "Hey, old man!" she yelled. She looked into the darkness of the large metal building, dilapidated, rusting to pieces, but somehow still there after fifty years of disuse and neglect.

  "Go away ya stinkin' little brats!" a voice came back.

  She watched the large opening as a scrawny, dirty old man appeared. His hair and long beard were gray except the places where nicotine had stained them brown, and his clothes were ragged and ill-fitting. He was skinny, too skinny to be alive, and yet he was, somehow, even thriving. "It's me, old man," she said as he stepped out into the light.