Horror Stories: A Macabre Collection
Read Horror Stories: A Macabre Collection Online
Authors: Steve Wands
Tags: #Horror, #Short Stories, #+IPAD, #+UNCHECKED
A Macabre Collection
By Steve Wands
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SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Published by:
Steve Wands on Smashwords
Horror Stories (A Macabre Collection)
Copyright © 2011 by Steve Wands
Cover Design and Layout by Apparatus
Revolution
All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
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prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used
without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark
owners.
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Table of Contents
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The walls oozed moisture. It dripped like
sweat down the bowing walls, down to the well-worn and warped
hardwood floors that creaked with every uneasy step. The
windowsills screamed as the soft rotting wood gave way under
pressure. Rats scurried through the walls, their thick ropey tails
thumping along the sheetrock as wads of insulation stuck to their
hairy hides.
The whole house swayed in sync with the
whipping winds of the escalating storm. Gutters overflowed with
rain, dead tree limbs, and fallen leaves. The downspouts swelled
like clogged veins in an old woman’s leg. The window shutters
slapped against the siding, echoing the lightning.
In the backyard, a tire swing spiraled by a
rope tied around a large tree branch. The soft sounds of playful
ghosts were kept secret by the roar of thunder overhead.
I know this house. I’ve been here before…
but this place doesn’t belong here. This is the house in my dreams…
my nightmares… It doesn’t make any sense.
The paint is peeling, cracked, and sagging
like skin in some spots. The front door is open, hanging by a
single screw in a rusty hinge. Mold has taken over the front porch
and the cement steps have weathered into jagged chunks of rock.
Something wants me here. Is it the house?
How did it get here? Why me? Why now?
A light on the porch flickered on. The door
began to bang against the wall, calling her to come inside. She
went.
She stood in the doorway, half in, and half
out. She stared at the fluttering insects that danced around the
light. She stepped further inside. There was something familiar
about the place to her but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Hello,” she said. “Anyone home?”
There was no answer, only the sound of the
storm, and the rats. There was a sketchbook lying in the middle of
the hall with a pencil next to it.
I remember now. I know why I remember this
place. I drew this… I made this… but, I was only a kid. This isn’t
possible.
She sat down and opened the sketchbook. It
was empty. The pages were crisp white, screaming for lines to be
drawn on them, crying for a purpose. She picked up the pencil,
examining the tip. When led struck paper the house creaked. She
began to sketch furiously. The walls straightened but somehow
appeared more menacing. Footsteps could be heard upstairs as she
created the inhabitants. The rats squealed in terror as she drew
them and then erased them.
She would sketch well into the morning,
filling the pages with the things that haunted her mind: the
mutants and monsters, the nightmarish architecture, the killer cars
and the creepy kids. The house moaned in delight.
I have to do this. I have to get them out of
my head. The world can deal with these horrors, I can’t. They can
figure them out. They can stop them. Someone has to…
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He gagged and heaved, choking on the fetid
remains of the dead piss-drenched rat that filled his mouth. The
rat’s stiff hairs prickled at his gums and irritated the roof of
his mouth. Every time he began to throw-up, his vomit either
erupted out of his nose or was chewed back down so that he could
breathe. The same duct tape that wrapped around his mouth, head,
and ankles, rendering him useless, bound his hands. He could hear
feet shuffling on the ground, walking around him. He heaved again,
the stiff rat-tail felt like a tendril of sandpaper on his
tongue.
He knew there were at least two people doing
this to him and why he didn’t know. Mistaken identity he hoped, but
knew deep down in his queasy-sick stomach that it was most likely
for fun. People did the damnedest things just to make the ten
o’clock news nowadays. All he wanted to know was why, and to know
if he’d ever live to never tell anyone about the things they did to
him. Now he waited, listening to the footsteps around him, waiting
for what horrible act they would perform next. Were they recording
this? Was that what this person was doing walking around him? Then
he heard a door open and a man’s voice yelling.
“Get up here! Leave the little piggy alone
till later,” the man’s voice roared.
He heard the set of feet skitter away. Too
light to be another man--a woman, he decided, lovers from hell, he
guessed. All he could do was gag, tasting the filth in his mouth,
and wait till later.
“I told you not to go down there alone.”
“I’m sorry…I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Well it does, do it again, and that’ll be
you down there. You don’t want that do you?”
She shook her head slowly from side to side,
staring into the man’s baby-blue eyes making certain he knew she
didn’t want that to be her down there in the dark.
“Good, then. Listen, I got to run out for a
bit. You just keep an eye on things till I get back and don’t go
down there. Let the piggy play with his pet, okay?”
“Okay, whatever.”
The man left, grabbing a set of keys on his
way out the door. He walked out into the sunshine. It was a
beautiful warm day. The kind of day fit for a trip to the beach,
but the man, Jerry, wasn’t dressed for the beach, nor did he aim to
go there. Jerry was on his way to Club 18, the local gentleman’s
club, which was full of anything but gentlemen. It was barely four
in the afternoon, and Club 18 would be nice and empty for a
bit.
Jerry reached into his glove box and pulled
out a flask. The flask had seen plenty of action, its surface
scratched and dented, but its innards full of warm whiskey that
went down as smooth as spit. By the time he reached Club 18 the
flask was empty and his dick was getting hard. The club had a
reputation for finding the youngest, stupidest girls around and
turning them into perfect little whores both onstage and off. Jerry
came for both. He worked himself up watching them, even though he
already knew whom he came for. By now he had his favorites and knew
their schedules. He was, after all, a favored regular with the
owner and the whores alike--he paid well and he paid often. So what
if he was rough? So what if he was an asshole? He paid in cash and
he kept coming back. He might as well have been Jesus H. Christ to
them all. He sure as shit acted like it when he strode in.
Today was different, though. He came with a
purpose more important than his pecker, though he’d get that taken
care of as well. Today he would set up his next little plaything.
He tired of the man downstairs. How much more could he take, he
wondered. And he wasn’t keen on men, but when a piggy presented
itself for play, who was he to say no?
Her name was Red, and for good reason: she
dressed up like Little Red Riding Hood--the sexy adult version--and
had reddish hair the color of fallen leaves. Her skin was pale and
freckled, toned and tight, flexible and smooth to the touch. He
wanted her bad. Almost so far as to keep her all to his self, but
that wasn’t right, he figured. He found his way to his usual spot
near the stage, between the entrance curtain and the stripper’s
pole. How he wished the strippers spun around a blade instead a
dull cylinder. His pocket was full of singles and they were burning
a hole.
The music clambered on and a new dancer took
the stage, as the previous one picked up her clothes and headed
off. He didn’t know her name and didn’t give a good Goddamn. She
was a fiery-hot brunette dressed up like a businesswoman in a tight
black suit and skirt. Her hair was tied tight in a ponytail and her
dark brown eyes glistened behind a pair of fake glasses. She
carried a clipboard and strutted on a pair of high heels that were
downright deadly. Jerry couldn’t help but smile, and clap, and
throw down a pair of singles. Whether it was the whiskey in his
belly or the scent of pussy in the air, Jerry automatically put her
on the list of candidates for the next open slot in the
take-all-you-can-until-you-die-or-I-get-sick-of-looking-at-you
reality show filmed right in his very own basement. She’d have to
take a number and get in line of course. The DJ faded his usual
dance music-bullshit into some classic Ozzy Osbourne and Jerry felt
right at home.
Jerry sat through another two dancers before
his girl took the stage. Red had to be the youngest of them all,
probably not even eighteen, but fit to dance and damned if she
didn’t. He wished her hair was streaked with blood and pulled
taught in his fist. Her eyes were wide and surrounded by dark,
thick eyeliner that almost appeared to be streaked by nervous
tears. Dance, bitch, he said to himself. Dance for daddy. Let’s see
what you can do today. The DJ was back into his dance
music-bullshit but Jerry didn’t care. The heavy bass synced
perfectly to his throbbing member and the rhythmic thrusts of her
hips. It looked like she was fucking the air beneath her. She shed
the top of her dirty little red riding hood outfit, exposing her
supple natural breasts. Her nipples were standing erect and he
longed to tear them off with his teeth and taste her warm blood. He
figured it tasted like honey, how could it not? He watched in a
daze as she bounced and bucked, stripped off the rest of her outfit
and fucked the pole. She worked it up and down, extending one leg
as high as her head and then spinning around with the other. She
was magnificent, a real talent, a natural. The things he would make
her do.
She came around like she always did; a soft
whisper in the ear, a sensual rub of the shoulder, and a kiss on
the neck. Her scent alone made his dick ache. He didn’t need any
convincing, but he loved the approach. He adored the ritual. He
knew something of ritual and longed to show her his own. Soon, he
thought, very soon.
Twenty bucks bought him two minutes, but
since they all knew him and knew he’d be back they let it go for
twice that. She took it slow, cause that’s how he liked it. Too
fast and he’d be asking for a hand job the first time around. The
place was dead, there were four other old guys swooning over the
dancer of the minute and the bouncer didn’t think twice about
Jerry. They’d gotten to know each other and Jerry had yet to cause
a scene, and even if he did, he was a regular, so it didn’t really
matter. Frequency was as much a currency as cold hard cash.