Another Man's Wife plus 3 Other Tales of Horror (4 page)

Corbin placed the items in the trunk of his
car before settling into the driver’s seat and slamming the door
shut, immediately awakening to the relentless beeping of his
clock-radio’s alarm.

He remembered the dream as if it had been
real, its vividness haunting long after waking. What were these
strange dreams he was having? Corbin, needing answers, got in his
car and drove to the Hunter and Gun Depot store.

He parked out front and went in. His mouth
hung open like a sedated psych patient’s. The store resembled his
dream down to the littlest detail. All the cardboard cutouts of
deer, the camouflage clothing, but the most disturbing part of all
was the elderly, mustache and suspender wearing man. Corbin had
never been in the store, having barely glanced at it while driving
by.

“Back already?” the man said, spotting
Corbin.

“Was I in here yesterday?”

The man smiled. “You playing some type of
game, mister?” His stare disapproving.

“The gun, I bought a gun.”

The man’s eyebrows went up, confusion evident
on his face. “That’s right,” he said. “You need something
else?”

“No,” Corbin said. “Thanks, sorry I bothered
you. Bad day is all.” He left the store quickly, racing home.

Corbin tore through his house, searching for
the shotgun. He checked the closets, basement, attic, under the
kitchen sink, the garage, and the entire yard, but found nothing.
He sat on the couch when he was done, exhausted. What the hell was
going on? Anxiety, like an electric current, coursed through his
body making his mind scramble for reality.

Corbin went to his medicine cabinet, downed a
few anti-anxiety pills and within minutes, had calmed. He called
his doctor who told him to speak with his psychiatrist.

“It must be an old memory,” doctor Rosenburg
said, over the phone. “Your subconscious is releasing it as a
defense mechanism to a recent trauma or stressful event. Hence, the
buying of the gun.”

“I’ve never been in that store, doc,” Corbin
said, his voice a bit shaky.

“It’s not uncommon for patients who’ve
undergone a drastic experience, such as your procedure, to have
memory loss or memory gain.”

“Bullshit,” Corbin said. “How the hell do you
explain the gun knowledge? I’ve never owned or cared to own
one.”

“You may have seen it on a television show.
Shotguns are pretty common. Buying it was most likely your mind’s
way of telling you to get protection. You may feel vulnerable and
exposed. I’ll make you an appointment and we’ll adjust the meds if
necessary.”

“Doc, the guy recognized me.” Corbin felt his
insides churn, a panic attack on the threshold of his mind, but the
medications held.

“Can you see me tomorrow?” the doc said, “say
eight a.m.?”

“You think something’s wrong?”

“No, no. Maybe a minor adjustment. Sometimes
the anti-rejection drugs can have an adverse reaction to
psychological medication.”

The next morning the psychiatrist lowered
Corbin’s usual dosage of anti-anxiety drugs, telling him it was
most likely the combination. It was time to lower the dose anyway,
eventually wean him off completely. He left the doctor’s office
feeling a little more confident than when he’d entered.

Later that night, shortly after diner, Corbin
blacked out again. He awoke five hours later, blood splattered on
his shirt, the shotgun resting on the living room coffee table.

He must have done something. Feeling
nauseous, he ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. He
washed his face with cold water in the sink after flushing the
toilet. With a water beaded his face, he stared at his reflection
in the mirror. “What have you done?” he said, speckles of blood
dotting his shirt like freckles.

Corbin ran downstairs, stripped naked, shoes
and all, tossing the items into the fireplace before burning them.
He smashed the stock off of the shotgun and threw both pieces into
the fire, after making sure the gun was empty. He’d seen enough
movies, knowing to pump the gun until no more shells ejected from
the chamber, and any blood evidence on the gun would be destroyed
in the fire.

He showered, bleaching the tub when he was
finished. Having no idea what he’d done, he needed to be careful.
The police could be on the way to his house. Destroying evidence
was key to keeping him out of jail while he figured out what the
hell was going on.

Unable to sleep he watched the news. It was
the same garbage every night, murder, death, floods, fires,
accidents, and a plethora of other negativity, but he had to watch.
When the news was over, Corbin felt satisfied that nothing during
the broadcast had involved him. Finding himself bushed he went to
sleep.

Corbin dreamt. He found himself in his car,
driving across town to Cedar Grove Estates and parking in front of
the large Victorian house from the earlier dream.

He climbed out of the car, grabbed the
shotgun from the backseat and began loading shells as if he were a
seasoned S.W.A.T. officer. He scaled the stairs, light emanating
from the windows, someone was home. The sidewalks were barren, void
of people as if the neighborhood were nothing but model homes. A
calm breeze, like a cool whisper, blew across his face. Corbin
knocked on the door, began pounding, angrily, when no one
answered.

“Yeah, yeah,” a man’s voice said from inside,
“hold on a sec.”

Corbin heard the jumbling of a lock opening,
the hairs on his neck upright with anticipation. The door
opened.

“What is it?” the man asked, annoyance in his
voice. He stood about six feet, his t-shirt hanging off his bones,
revealing him to be a frail, almost sickly, looking person.
Corbin’s eyes watered as an overwhelming stench of alcohol
assaulted his nose. The man took a moment to focus, a look of
horror coming over him. “You,” he said, putting a hand over his
heart, his eyes the size of ping pong balls. “You’re dead. I killed
you.”

Corbin, unable to control his hatred, kicked
the man in the gut sending him tumbling down a small set of
carpeted stairs. Corbin ran into the house, slamming the door
behind him.

Standing in the small foyer way, Corbin
looked down the crumpled heap. The man, thankfully, was still
breathing.

Corbin walked down the stairs, the man
moaning in pain. “My head, I hit my head.”

“Get up, asshole,” Corbin said. As if hearing
himself from a distance and only allowed to watch.

“This can’t be. You’re dead. I hit you with
my car.”

Corbin dragged the man to his feet. “Walk,”
he said, prodding the man’s back with the gun.

“You’re alive, but how?” he asked.

“Shut up,” Corbin said. They climbed the
stairs to the kitchen. “Sit.”

The man sat down in one of the kitchen
chairs. Corbin glanced around. Empty bottles of whiskey and cheap
vodka filled the sink. Bills and moldy, what looked like bread,
cluttered the kitchen table. The counter was lined with filthy
dishes and smears of dried grape jelly.

“I have a problem,” the man said. “I like to
drink.”

“Yes, it is a problem.”

Corbin, rage igniting his innards, whacked
the man upside his head with the butt of the weapon. The man cried
as he held his scalp.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” He
tried groping Corbin’s shirt like a beggar. “Please, please, I’m so
sorry. I got out of my car, checked on you, but you were a goner.
All messed up and broken. I couldn’t stay, there was nothing I
could’ve done and the cops would’ve arrested me.” Corbin raised the
shotgun, pointing the barrel at the man’s skeletal chest. The man’s
crotch began darkening, the stench of urine filling the air.
“Please, don’t,” the man pleaded, hands and fingers grouped
together in false prayer. “I’ll get help, besides, you’re okay now.
You didn’t die.”

“Look at me. Really look at me,” Corbin
said.

The man’s eyebrows scrunched together, a look
of confusion upon his face. “I don’t understand. You walked in here
without a limp. You’re body was broken. I saw your bones sticking
out of your skin. Only your face was untouched.” The man’s
expression turned to fright, as if he realized the man before him
wasn’t the man he’d killed, but a resurrected monster. The pitiful
man trembled, as if electrocuted, and reached out to touch Corbin’s
face.

“This is for leaving my wife without a
husband and my daughter without a father.” The man’s chest exploded
as Corbin fired the weapon. The body tumbled over backwards, chair
and all. The blast was deafening, Corbin’s ears rung as his
nostrils filled with the odor of cordite.

“I saved your face too,” Corbin said.

The Serial Killer’s Ghoul

The graveyard was at rest, a low hanging fog
hugged the ground, tombstones showing through like frozen ghosts.
The cemetery dated back to the mid 1800’s. It was named after the
Grending family, the first prominent people to settle the area. No
new graves had been dug for years; the weeds and tall grass
flourishing. With no relatives left alive to visit, the graveyard
had begun melding into its surroundings, becoming a part of the
landscape.

The place was miles from town, and off of the
main roads. The wild vegetation and rancid odor from the nearby bog
kept people away; the town forgetting the long dead. It was the
reason Brian Hinkerly, a dentist, had bound the ghoul there.

He parked his Chevy Tahoe behind a blossoming
lilac tree, hiding it from view of the road. The nearest residence
was a good three miles away, but he had to be vigilant. If a body
was ever discovered, the ghoul unable for whatever reason to finish
its meal, Brian wanted no one to be able to identify him. As
desolate an area as Grending Cemetery was, there was always the
chance someone could wander into it. In today’s world no place was
too remote or unreachable.

The young woman, Harriet Baker, lay in the
back of the truck. Brian opened the rear hatch, grabbed a lantern
and slung the strap over his shoulder. He would need two hands for
the task ahead. The woman was beginning to stir. He grabbed her
ankles and yanked her out of the vehicle. The woman landed hard on
the muddy ground, splattering Brian’s plastic covered shoes with
muck. Her feet and wrists were bound with barbed wire while duct
tape covered her mouth. A line of mucus trailed from her left
nostril like an alien worm.

Brian shut the hatch, locked the car and
grabbed the woman’s ankles before he started dragging her.

She shook her head back and forth, her long
blonde hair wild and picking up twigs and leaves. She attempted to
scream, but the duct tape over her mouth kept her quiet. He laughed
at her writhing and inaudible pleading, dragging her up the
inclined rocky path to the graveyard.

He stopped outside of the cemetery gates.
They were wrought iron, made from fine craftsmanship, with two
gargoyles perched atop. Years of rain, wind, and snow, rusted the
iron work, making them appear ancient.

He always kept the gate partially open,
enough to fit himself through. If anyone came along, he wanted it
to look as if no one had visited the place.

He brought the woman through, pulling her a
few feet inside the yard before letting go of her ankles. She
continued to struggle and moan in pain, her back bruised from
having been hauled over jagged rocks.

Brian pulled a small gutting knife from his
pocket. Easily concealed, it was his favorite weapon of choice for
small, deep incisions. He bent down next to the whining female and
sliced a one inch line down the inside of her right wrist. Then he
did the same to her left wrist. The blood flowed from the wound,
darkening the bottom of the tall grass. It kept coming, as if she
was overfilled; the heart pumping faster to counteract the loss of
pressure. Brian watched, feeling a rush of pleasure. He supposed it
was what normal people got out of great sex. Copulation, to him,
was unfulfilling, like a lion eating lettuce for dinner. A slow,
agonizing, kill is what got him off.

“Yes,” he said to the woman as she stared,
horrified, at him. “This
is
really happening. That water I
offered you earlier had an anti-coagulant in it. Don’t want you
clotting now, do we?”

The woman’s eyes went wide and she began to
shake, tears flowing from the corners of her eyes. Brian watched as
the minutes turned to hours, transfixed by the gruesome scene. Her
fear filled him with power as if he were taking a piece of her
soul. The woman had gone from screaming and crying to docile and
sleepy. She had a couple of inaudible pleadings, her strength
fading. Her eyelids slowly began to lower, death seeping in. He
loved to watch his victims fight, but it was useless. Death always
came. He knew when it was time, leaning in and lowering his ear to
her mouth, waiting for it. It came, the last breath. He shuddered,
moaning in ecstasy.

The sun dipped below the horizon just after
the woman passed. He took hold of the lantern, and using a lighter,
ignited the wick. It had four glass sides, three covered with black
paint to cut down on the glow. It was unlikely he’d be seen, but
took precautions anyway.

With dead flesh lying about, it wouldn’t be
long before the ghoul came out of the bog, the place it dwelled.
The creature needed a constant supply of dead meat and lived off
the swamp’s critters when human flesh wasn’t available.

He heard the ghoul’s moaning before seeing it
emerge out of the gloom from across the way. The creature ambled
over, almost limping. Its skin, covered in rot and littered with
oozing sores, had an olive tint to it. Eyes like swollen olives
were sunken in to its skull, the pupils nothing more than tiny
specs of black. The ghoul was hungry for dead human flesh, the
bodies in the yard all but decaying skeletons with no meat left.
Brian marveled at the creature; something dead, yet alive. He had
offered it living flesh once, but the thing refused. The monster
had instead torn the woman’s throat open, and waited for her to
die, then feasted on the corpse.