Horror Express Volume Two

by Bentley Little

  HORROR EXPRESS

  VOLUME TWO

  Edited by Marc Shemmans

  HORROR EXPRESS PUBLICATIONS

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 Horror Express Publications

  The rights of all authors have been asserted them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical. This includes photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, or their agent, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a critical article or review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper, or electronically transmitted on radio or television.

  All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All stories are a work of fiction.

  External illustration © 2012 by Allen Koszowksi

  Internal illustration © Glenn James

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  Horror Express Publications

  PO BOX 11600

  Birmingham

  B30 2QW

  United Kingdom

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ISBN-13: 978-1479154845

  ISBN-10: 1479154849

  CONTENTS

  MUSEUM OF LOST TOYS Rick Hudson 7

  ALICE BRADSHAW Jonathan J. Schlosser 14

  THE MIRACLE Bentley Little 30

  THEY HUNT US George O’Gorman 50

  AUNT JUDITH Jim Pendrick 68

  MILLERS FOREST David Cairns 100

  GNOMIC Tom Fletcher 119

  ALL IN THE MIND Vishwas R. Gaitonde 139

  THE ORCHARD HUNTERS Priya Sharma 162

  SCRUNCHIES FROM HELL Shawn Oetzel 187

  WRECKED Rachel Kendall 210

  THE JUDGEMENT Andy Echevarria 221

  THE UNWANTED J.C. Lee 262

  THE PENDANT Phillip Madden 276

  ATTERCOP Glenn James 289

  THE HANGMAN Guy N Smith 304

  An interview with Rick Hudson 312

  SHRAPNEL (excerpt) Rick Hudson 328

  VOLUME TWO

  Nine years ago I started The Horror Express – a magazine publishing horror fiction. Our candid friends warned me I was wasting money and time. They told me that the permutations, inventions and refinements in the art of horror writing had been used up and that starting a horror magazine was going to go nowhere. That I would find difficulty finding a place in the market and would have even more difficulty finding authors with good enough stories to fill a horror publication which would win approval on the merit of its contents.

  How wrong they were! My mailbox (electronic and physical), with the flow of manuscripts which come in daily, proves that original creative writing in this genre is still flourishing.

  I have striven to make The Horror Express – now a regular anthology – the delight of your leisure hours, and hope that in some small measure that I have succeeded.

  Sure, the first few years were a rocky road but now we are still here and we aim to release tales from both established and up and coming writers. Thus, giving another outlet for up and coming writers to showcase their hard work.

  Now, in a spate of unselfishness, not wishing to keep a good thing to ourselves, may I ask you to tell as many people as possible about Horror Express Publications and all of our anthologies! Maybe in the future they will also pick up forthcoming novels too.

  Now, let’s leave you to it. I hope you enjoy reading this anthology as much as I enjoyed putting it together and I hope you remain with us for Volume Three and beyond.

  Please remember to visit our facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Horror-Express-Publications/305045136216842

  Marc Shemmans

  Editor

  Rick Hudson

  THE MUSEUM OF LOST TOYS

  i. Museum of Lost Toys

  It was a small dark town; I had an hour or so to kill between trains. Casually I ambled among its cramped streets. Maybe I could get a sandwich somewhere. Somewhere or something to pass the time. Then I saw the small museum. A tiny little building, no doubt run by a tragic enthusiast. With a shrug and a smirk I entered, expecting my metropolitan urbanity and sophistication to be fuelled and stoked by the risible museum’s provincial blandness and absurdity.

  It was dim and grubby inside. My eagerness for disappointment initially appeared to be rewarded. The maroon carpet stuck and tugged at the soles of my shoes, and that indefinable smell – something not unlike unwashed laundry – obligingly fulfilled its role in justifying my pre-planned refined disdain. The curator courteously performed his function as a prissy anxious host who truly believed in his vocation and keeping this folly alive.

  But then I saw the exhibits, and my heart broke into a thousand pieces. They were arranged in great dusty glass tanks. The toys. The Action Man dressed in an amalgam of German storm trooper and US tank commander gear; that particular array of voltigeurs; the white robot with the broken arm. I’d had these toys. No, you misunderstand me: I’d had these toys. The Apache horseman, the front hoof slightly melted on a radiator; the apple green steam locomotive I’d pined to own and eventually received, only to see it stumble awkwardly over ill-constructed tracks (ah, yes I’d forgotten how it’s number was slightly worn . . . and that chip in the paintwork, on the cab’s left-hand side. Yes, just how they’d been). And the bear. The little grey bear in the white collar, worn in just the right places. Its fur had soaked up so many tears. I pressed myself against the glass, palms spread. I wanted them back. I wanted to be with them again. To hold and embrace them. How I wanted them, and their simple world of pain and comfort. I wanted to feel little grey ears stroke my cheek. Oh please, oh please take me back.

  But I knew if I held them they’d bring back a thousand bad dreams… things left buried… things forgotten … things that had stewed, fermented and curdled and were best left alone.

  ii. The Toy

  The toy was the reification of wonder.

  A receptacle of love.

  Oh, but it giggled,

  Tittering with evil excitement

  Sniggering with malicious glee.

  Its treachery thrilled it,

  One day it would be lost or broken,

  Abandoning its mistress to the dark and solitude

  Haunted by the ghosts of her toys.

  iii Restless Dolls

  He was a collector.

  He was found at the foot of the stairs.

  Dead.

  He lived alone in the old house.

  When the cleaner found him she was most disturbed by the look of abject terror frozen on his face.

  He was wealthy.

  He had made his money in an unremarkable but lucrative profession.

  He lived alone in the old house.

  He collected dolls.

  He kept them safe and clean.

  Never opening the packaging.

  Kept them pure and intact.

  Kept them stacked and recorded…

  Index cards – in a neat plastic box – documented their designer; their manufacturer; their date of issue. Supplementary information was recorded on the reverse.

  He kept them safe and clean.

  He never opened the boxes.

  He never played with them.

  … and the dolls were bored.

  … the dolls were very bored.

  When he reviewed his collection (this was not an investment – he truly loved the dolls) he never noticed their silent, wide-e
yed desperation. Until one day…

  Until one day…

  A slow tiny tentative hand moved to paw the polythene.

  … the dolls were very bored.

  iv. The Robot Enthusiast

  Clones were cheaper and far more efficient. Everyone knew that. But Doug liked robots. He half believed the robots had a soul the vat-grown fleshy homunculi lacked despite their beauty. His palace would have run far more smoothly had it been staffed by organic replicates; but instead its corridors, lounges and salons clanked and whirred with the workings of out-moded and expensive machines. As they went about their tasks in the great halls and chambers, and maintained the subterranean drainage, heating and ventilation systems, the robots’ irregularities and failings gave them the illusion of character, the impression of charm.

  v. The Land of Clocks

  Malcolm went to sleep one night and had terrible nightmares.

  When he awoke he found himself lying in his bed, not in his bedroom – but in a big, dark room full of clocks. Some old, some new. Telling different times, ticking at different speeds. Some beeped, some squeaked, some gonged, some shrieked.

  ‘Where am I?’ he wondered out loud.

  ‘You are in the Land of Clocks’ a slippery whisper replied.

  A thin thing, made only of shadows, stepped out of the darkness and bowed. Its long body bending in the middle until its head touched the floor.

  ‘Who are you?’ Malcolm asked, too amazed to be scared.

  ‘I am,’ the creature straightened and flourished a long fingered hand, ‘the Spider Elf.’

  ‘A spider elf?’

  ‘The Spider Elf, if you please. The King of Dark Dreams. The Lord of the Strange and the Prince of the Weird.’

  And then it began to sing:

  ‘Strange things tell us many things

  And dark dreams tell us more.

  The clocks are wrong in many ways

  But right in many more.

  This one’s for the Arctic, this one for Sudan,

  This one for London and this one for Japan…’

  ‘Oh!’ Malcolm was delighted ‘I must be in a children’s story!’

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding,’ the Spider Elf interjected ‘I’m going to eat your fucking head, you daft twat’.

  Jonathan J. Schlosser

  ALICE BRADSHAW

  Alice sat in the dark, the pistol a cold piece of ice in her right hand, wondering if God really sent suicides to hell.

  The basement had lights, but she ignored them. Being able to see her sister would only make things worse--though her sister being able to see her was what she really wanted to avoid. This wasn’t easy for Karen, not at all, and Alice figured she owed it to her twin to make it as painless as possible. Karen had come, after all. She had come.

  ‘Alice, honey, you still there?’ Karen’s voice drifted out of the darkness. A trickle of light played through the small windows ringing the basement, though Alice had tried to cover them with sheets.

  Grinning, Alice nodded. ‘Of course. You haven’t heard the shot yet, have you?’

  ‘No.’ Karen’s voice faltered. ‘I just…wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Wasn’t sure it hadn’t taken me yet?’ Alice chuckled; she lifted a withered arm. ‘I’m still myself, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Not really. Better this was done.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that!’ Karen’s feet scrapped the floor as she sat up straighter. ‘Won’t you let me call someone? There’s a great doctor, Troy Slater, over in Rabner. He’s treated all sorts of diseases.’

  ‘If this was a disease, maybe it would matter. There’s nothing more for me now.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alice spoke softly, barely able to hear herself in the silent basement. ‘Yes, I am.’

  It had all started less than ten hours ago, when she’d found the book. It had been in the attic with the rest of her great-grandmother’s treasures, tucked beneath a Bible. It hadn’t originated with her great-grandmother; she’d known that immediately. From the look of it--the worn edges, the pages yellowed with age--the book was far older.

  Alice tipped her head back, feeling her skin pull taught. A few hours ago - four, even - it had felt much less constrained. She cursed softly.

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Just thinking. Sorry.’ Alice pursed her lips, wishing she had never picked up the book. Or that she’d put it down much sooner. That wouldn’t have been so hard, would it? As soon as she’d seen the inscription on the inside cover - Martha Bradshaw, Salem, 1691-she should have thrown it across the attic with every ounce of strength in her and never picked it up again.

  But she hadn’t. Instead, curiosity had overcome caution and she’d begun to read. More than that--she had begun to read out loud.

  ‘Would you mind if I go upstairs and get some water, honey?’ Karen stood with a rustle of fabric.

  Alice nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘I won’t run out on you, Allie.’

  ‘I would, if I were you.’ Alice dropped her eyes. ‘But thank you.’

  Karen walked past, reached the stairs, and hesitated. ‘Do you want anything?’

  ‘Food won’t help and we both know it. Maybe a glass of wine, but even that’s a bad idea. As much of me as there is left, I’d be drunk in no time.’ Alice help up the gun. ‘I don’t think you want that.’

  Karen padded up the stairs and pushed the door open with a creak. For a moment, less than three seconds, light washed down the stairs and over Alice.

  In those seconds, she saw herself. It was enough to make her nauseous, and she was glad she hadn’t eaten. The disease - despite telling Karen it wasn’t a disease, she could think of no other word - had eaten her flesh down to little more than skin and bone. But it wasn’t just a wasting disease; it had also changed her. Her fingers had grown longer and hooked like talons. Claws sprouted from her heels. She knew from the pressure that something had grown from her cheekbones - or perhaps the cheekbones themselves had become more pronounced, as her ribs had done. With their growth and the shrinking of her body mass, each bone stood out under her thin white shirt like the bars of a prison cell.

  Alice almost jammed the pistol between her teeth. I’m like the freaks from the circus, the sideshow terrors that make little kids lose months of sleep.

  The door closed and Alice lost sight of herself. She let the pistol hang loose, though she knew she’d need it eventually. Hopefully before she lost her mind and Karen had to do the honours.

  The Bradshaw family had a small, well-kept box of secrets. Alice and Karen had been brought up with the understanding that secrets stayed within the family, never revealed to anyone that hadn’t been born or married in. The least of these involved family problems - extramarital affairs, drug addictions, an accidental murder and subsequent flight. The largest, however, came from Martha Bradshaw herself, the first of the family to make it to the Americas. And Martha Bradshaw had been nothing but trouble.

  The door opened again and Karen retraced her steps back into the basement. She held a beer in one hand, the cap already removed; a small overflow of foam spilled as she dropped back into her chair.

  Alice snorted. ‘That bad, is it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You never drink beer. I must be a sight to see.’

  Karen looked down. ‘Allie…what is this? What’s going on?’

  Alice ran a hand over her face, chilled by the tough, leathery quality of her skin. It felt like a tent pulled over poles a size too large. ‘We both know the story, Karen, about Martha. I know you don’t want to believe it, but it’s time to face the facts. Look at me. I read that book, basically chanted the thing, and now it’s got me. Martha’s got me.’

  ‘You think you’re becoming her?’

  ‘I think I’m becoming what she was when she burned.’ Alice shivered. Martha Bradshaw had been accused of witchcraft and executed at the stake; the townspeople had
n’t known what she was, or how to fix it. ‘And she transformed to a devil,’ Alice said. ‘Her flesh rotted on her bones and her face twisted beyond recognition.’ Those words had been on an official trail record marked as coming from Salem. She’d seen the account when she’d been let in on the secret, and it now overwhelmed her every thought.

  Karen gasped slightly, as if on the verge of tears. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s what happened, isn’t it? They thought she was more than a witch, Karen. They thought she was the very devil himself. And maybe they were right.’

  ‘But you can’t be -’ A sob wracked Karen’s body.

  ‘The devil?’ Alice shook her head. ‘No, I think I’d know that. But based on Martha’s ideas, I think I’m some sort of intermediary - maybe the link between the netherworld and this world.’

  Karen choked and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘That’s not possible. Things like that don’t exist. The devil, God, witches-it’s all just stories, Alice. Stories to scare ignorant people into obedience. Nothing more.’

  Alice rose, holding out her hands. Golden beams of dying sunlight shot lines across the basement floor. ‘Then explain this. Just try to explain this.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Dropping her hands to her stomach, Alice latched her elongated fingers together. ‘Blow my own brains all over that wall, Karen. I don’t want to, but I have to. Who knows what will happen when the transformation is complete. Who knows what I’ll do, or if I’ll even be me anymore.’ She didn’t say and if God does send suicides to hell, maybe it’ll be like going home.

  Something in the back of Alice’s mind wavered; nothing else could describe it. She felt a small wrinkle of pain and then - (she couldn’t see. The gut-wrenching, throat-tightening feeling of freefall clenched her muscles. A man and woman were talking, arguing, and the woman laughed - a harsh bray with no humour in it whatsoever. There was a swish of cloth, like a dress flowing around legs, and Alice thought she felt something - a hand, an elbow - brush her forearm. Then the woman’s voice spoke again, centimetres from her ear. ‘You are chosen.’