by Ray Garton
WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH
Ray Garton
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright
Blurbs
Introduction
Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth
Graven Image
God's Work
Choices
Monsters
Sinema
Punishments
Biography
This book is for two of my dearest friends
Steven Spruill and Karen Leonard
Thank you for everything you've brought to my life.
I love you both dearly.
And as always, this book is for my wife Dawn,
who helped lead me out of the darkness
and keeps me in the light.
WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH is Copyright © 2016 by Ray Garton and RGB Publishing. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means - electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise - without prior written permission of the author/publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, email the author at [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit Ray Garton on the internet at:
Website - http://www.raygartononline.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/ray.garton.3
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Ebook formatting and cover design by AtomDesignsOnline
PRAISE FOR RAY GARTON:
"Garton has a flair for taking veteran horror themes and twisting them to evocative or entertaining effect."
--- Publishers Weekly
"Ray Garton is one of the most talented, reliable writers of horror fiction alive today."
--- Cemetery Dance magazine
"A real storyteller."
--- Scott Standridge, City Slab magazine
"Garton never fails to go for the throat."
--- Richard Laymon
"Ray Garton is one of the true kings of old school horror. ... The writing is always taut, chilling, and full of spooky action. This man knows how to ratchet up the tension until you're screaming."
--- Tom Piccirilli, author of The Midnight Road
"Garton is, simply put, one of the masters."
--- James A. Moore
Religion is a touchy subject. That's why I have come to avoid it in conversation. When I was growing up, everybody avoided religion in conversation. Politics, as well. At some point, though, that changed and suddenly all anyone wants to talk about is the kind of stuff we used to avoid talking about in order to keep some peace. I have gone back to avoiding the subjects, but at times that's difficult to do because some people like to talk about their religion and their politics. A lot. If you've visited the internet lately, you know that many people have come totally unhinged over religion and politics. And if you look at the events of the world in recent decades, a lot of people are willing, even eager, to kill for their religion.
But even though I carefully avoid religion as a conversation topic, I have put together a collection of all my religious horror stories. I didn't do it to piss people off, I did it because I realized that over the last thirty years I had written enough horror stories involving religion to fill a book. So I did. (I've also written enough horror stories involving house pets to fill a book, so that's probably coming next.)
My personal experience with religion has not been pleasant. I was raised a Seventh-day Adventist, a pseudo-Christian cult that condemns the reading of any kind of fiction whatsoever, and I'm a horror novelist. As you can imagine, that's not a good mix. Some but not all of the stories in this collection are set within the Seventh-day Adventist subculture or on its fringes because, having grown up and been educated in it, that is the sect with which I am most familiar.
I do not have a vendetta against the Seventh-day Adventist church, I'm not angry or bitter, and I do not hate Christians or any other people of faith. Those are accusations that were thrown around pretty liberally back when I was more vocal about religion, and especially when Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth was first released as a limited edition hardcover from Cemetery Dance Publications. The Seventh-day Adventist subculture is a tight one, very insular, and I not only grew up in it, I went through the long, unpleasant, and extremely difficult task of removing myself from it, and it from me. Naturally, all of that has had an influence on my writing, just as all life experiences influence the work of any writer. (I've had a lot of house pets over the years, too, which is why they show up in my work. Nobody seems to mind that, though. Except when I kill one of them, of course. Then I get angry letters.)
Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth was published in 2012 as a promotional item for the Cemetery Dance Collectors Club and there were only enough printed for the club members, which came to 773 copies. For the reprint, I've added two stories that were not available to be included in the original edition, "Graven Image" and "God's Work."
These stories go all the way back to 1988 when my novella "Monsters" appeared in Night Visions 6, edited by Dean R. Koontz (published as The Bone Yard in paperback), and when "Sinema" appeared in David J. Schow's memorable movie-themed anthology Silver Scream. "Punishments" was originally published in Hot Blood: Tales of Provocative Horror edited by Jeff Gelb and Lonn Friend, the first in a long and popular series of anthologies. "God's Work" and "Choices" debuted in my 1996 collection Pieces of Hate. "Graven Image" was published by Cemetery Dance Publications as a hardcover chapbook in 2007. The book kicks off with a brand new story, "Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth," which appears for the first time anywhere in this collection.
The title is a phrase that pops up now and then in the Bible, usually in reference to the day of judgment when God throws all the bad people into the furnace of eternal punishment. Seventh-day Adventists are big on the last days, the end times, whatever you want to call them. I grew up under the dark shadow of the coming time of trouble that would lead up to the second coming of Jesus Christ. It plays a big part in the Adventist belief system and is described vividly in the church's literature—and to the church's tender-minded little children. I grew up in fear of it. I first heard the phrase "wailing and gnashing of teeth" in that context when I was very small, and, not knowing exactly what "gnashing" meant, I imagined people being so insane with terror that they tore out their own teeth, so that when Jesus took them all up to heaven, nobody would have a tooth in their heads. All those beautiful, shimmering angels floating in the clouds blowing their trumpets of gold, all basking in the blinding light of the throne of God—and here come the toothless earthlings. The phrase has finally bubbled up in my writing.
Whether or not you are a religious believer, I hope you enjoy the stories that follow.
Now, let's open our hymnals and sing together....
WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH
"Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old he will not depart from it."
Proverbs 22:6
Margaret Steensma's front yard was immaculately groomed and neat. Shrubs were squarely trimmed, brilliant red and yellow roses flourished, and tall day lilies gleamed a virginal white. The mailbox out front was a miniature red barn with a golden rooster on top, head tipped back as if to crow. Hummingbirds hovered at the feeder that hung at the edge of the small covered porch. The rest of the yards on Train Street were untended and
overgrown or dead and empty, the houses dark and run down. But Margaret's Steensma's cream-colored house with yellow trim looked like a cottage in a fairy tale.
As Lauren Sutherland walked up the front steps, Margaret pushed open the squeaky screen door and stepped out onto the porch with a big smile.
"You must be Lauren," she said in a high, chirpy voice. She was a small woman, slightly hunched, with full, curly, silver hair fresh from the beauty parlor and a pair of tortoise-shell glasses perched on her little nose. She wore a bright yellow and green dress and looked ready for church, although it was Tuesday. Lauren suspected that her bright smile had never changed over the decades. She would have looked no different had Norman Rockwell painted her.
"Hello, Mrs. Steensma," Lauren said.
"Oh, please, honey, call me Madge. That's what people have been calling me since I was a girl. And that's a long, long time, believe me. Come inside and get out of this heat. I made ice tea and cookies."
Inside, the house smelled of freshly baked cookies and potpourri. The living room was as neat and orderly as the front yard. Over the fireplace hung a painting of a rugged looking Jesus Christ holding a lamb in his arms and stroking it with a nail-scarred hand. There were family photographs everywhere—pictures of Madge and her late husband Wyatt and the subject of Lauren's visit, their only child, Leroy Arthur Steensma.
Lauren had sat alone in her apartment rehearsing the way she would begin her interview with Mrs. Steensma. Knowing it would be a tough subject for the old woman to discuss, she wanted to get the ball rolling in a way that would put her at ease. Madge knew what the focus of the interview would be, but still, Lauren did not want to make it anymore difficult than it was already. The poor woman was all alone at 82. It was bad enough that her son had killed her husband, but he had also killed 14 other people, a few of them children. Years had passed, of course, and maybe time really did heal all wounds...but how did someone get over that?
"Come into the kitchen," Madge said. "It's sunnier in there and I've set out our family albums for you to look through."
It was indeed bright and sunny in the kitchen. A table in the corner stood between two large windows with yellow curtains. A pitcher of iced tea, a plate of cookies, two glasses and some napkins awaited them. One of the three chairs at the table held a stack of photo albums.
"Please take a seat and have some tea," Madge said, going to the table ahead of her. She poured tea into the glasses, then seated herself. Her smile never faltered and she seemed so eager to please that Lauren couldn't help smiling herself. "You're much younger than I expected," Madge said as Lauren sat down. "Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"
"I just turned 25." She slipped the strap of her bag off her shoulder and put it on the floor beside the chair.
"Oh, my. And you're already writing for a national magazine. Your parents must be terribly proud."
They talked for a little while about Lauren's work, her family and childhood. When Lauren mentioned how beautiful Madge's yard was, the old woman explained that her nephew's son, who had a green thumb, came over once a week and tended it. Finally, after about fifteen minutes of small talk, Madge said, "I suppose you're anxious to get to your questions."
"I don't want to rush you, Madge," Lauren said, taking the small digital recorder from her purse and putting it on the table. She took her folder of notes from the bag as well and opened it before her. "We'll do this at your pace. I want to make sure you're comfortable."
"Oh, you don't have to worry about me, dear. At my age, nothing much bothers me anymore. And if something does, I'll tell you. Politely, of course. I may be old, but I still have manners." She winked.
For weeks, Lauren had been carefully researching the case of Leroy Arthur Steensma. She had read every newspaper and magazine story, every police and coroner's report, everything she could find. She had read sensational true crime books that detailed his killings in ways that were almost loving. She had watched half a dozen documentaries and a made-for-TV movie about the case, and even a straight-to-video horror film loosely based on Steensma's killings. Nowhere in any of that material was there an interview with Steensma's mother. It seemed a natural to Lauren and she could not understand why no one had done it. According to her reading on the subject, experts agreed that serial killers were formed very early in life, during childhood. Why wouldn't anyone talk to Steensma's mother to see what he had been like as a boy and find out what events or environmental conditions might have contributed to the monster he became later? Lauren had pitched the idea to her editor and he had given her the green light.
She did not expect any revelations. Madge was not likely to have an objective view of her son's childhood. What parent would? Or could? But Lauren thought there might be some clues as to why Leroy had grown into such a vicious serial killer who had done such awful things to his victims, even if she had to read between the lines to see them.
"You want to talk about my son," Madge said. "I'm ready to do that."
Lauren turned on the recorder. "What was he like as a boy, Madge?"
"Oh, he was such an angel when he was small," she said, taking the top photo album off the stack and putting it on the table. She opened it and looked for a particular page. "I know that's hard to believe now, but when you see him—here he is. Look at him. Such a beautiful little child." She turned the album around so Lauren could see it and pointed at a photo. "There he is with his pet pigeon. It was so funny—that pigeon loved him. Whenever Leroy was in the back yard, the pigeon would come see him and land on his head. Doesn't he look sweet here?"
In the photo, a toddler with shiny blond hair stood in the sun with a gray-and-white pigeon perched on his left arm. The child's arms were spread and his round face was contorted in a look of abject terror. His eyes were sad below eyebrows that knotted in the center and slanted downward on the outsides.
"The following year, that pigeon just stopped showing up," Madge said. "We thought a hawk might have gotten him because we found some feathers in the back yard one day that looked like they might have been his. There were a lot of hawks around in those days. Not so much anymore."
Madge took a sip of tea, then turned the page in the photo album and pointed to another picture. "There he is at the Christmas parade in...oh, I'm not sure what year that was. He must have been about six or seven years old."
Once again, Leroy looked both frightened and sad as he stood beside a little man dressed as an elf. Christmas lights glowed in the background. Leroy looked fleshier than in the previous photograph. His tense eyebrows again slanted downward at the outer ends. The flesh around Leroy's left eye was a little puffy and slightly discolored.
"Did he hurt himself?" Lauren asked.
Madge frowned as she turned the album around then squinted at the picture. "Oh, yes, I guess he has a little bruise." She smiled as she pushed the album back over to Lauren. "Poor Leroy was a terribly clumsy boy. Always falling off of things, tripping over his own feet. I never let him carry around anything breakable because it was a sure bet he'd drop it. He just wasn't very coordinated. He wasn't at all athletic and avoided participating in sports whenever possible. He was even that way as an adult, poor fellow."
Madge turned the page again.
"This is Leroy in a school play. I think he was in the fifth grade at the time. The play was a re-enactment of the bible story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. I don't remember who Leroy played, but he's giving a little monologue here."
Leroy stood center stage in costume, facing the audience. He had put on more weight—his cheeks were rounder, his belly more prominent—but still somehow looked small on that stage. He stood with his mouth open, right arm outstretched to emphasize a point he was making. Even at the distance from which the photograph had been taken, Lauren could see that same sadness and fear in his face.
"I still have that costume," she said. "I've kept everything over the years. Everything. I guess that makes me a pack rat. But I'm a sent
imental pack rat." Madge pointed to a picture on the opposite page and said, "Here we are on a camping trip. Wyatt loved to go camping. Leroy wasn't as fond of it as his father, but he tried to go along with it. The woods scared him."
In the photo, Madge and Wyatt stood together in front of a green tent, and in front of them stood Leroy. Madge's blonde hair reached her shoulders, her face free of wrinkles, eyes bright. Lauren had been right about her smile—it had not changed over the decades. Beside her, Wyatt stood unsmiling, his face stern, dark brown hair short and parted on the side, eyes narrowed slightly, chin jutting to one side. Standing before them, Leroy wore that sad expression, eyebrows slanting downward on the outer ends, lips pressed tightly together, shoulders slumped as if in resignation. In his slightly too-wide eyes, there was some fear. His blond hair was combed exactly like his father's. He looked worried and afraid and had grown quite chubby.
"Leroy and his father didn't get along?" Lauren asked.
"Well..." Her smile faded for the first time and she squinted behind her glasses as if gazing back in time. "At the time, it seemed normal to me. You know, a boy pushing against the dominance of his father. We're all rebellious at heart, being born into sin as we are. We resist authority. That's been our problem since the Garden of Eden. Leroy was..." She took a long moment to find the right word. "...resistant. Yes, that's the right word. He was resistant to his father. But I didn't see anything unusual in it. He was such a happy boy, I thought that was just a normal...boy thing."
