65 Proof (37 page)

“Stick to the story.”

“This is some pretty sick shit.”

“Stick to the story!”

“Okay. Sorry. Where was I? I lost my place.”

“The cops didn’t help you.”

“Right. Okay, here it is. That was it for me. I had enough of playing the victim.”

“Is that when you started…?”

“Is that when I started grabbing these sons of bitches? Yeah. When I got out of the hospital the second time, I tracked down the freak, watched his house until he was asleep, and then broke in. Used his own handcuffs on him. And his own blowtorch. It was hard to restrain myself, lemme tell you. But even holding back, his balls turned black and fell off after only three days.”

“This was John McSweeny?”

“Yeah. He sure was a screamer. Screamed so much, his throat actually started to bleed. Know what the weird part is? He smelled great! Like honey baked ham. When I burned off his face I was actually drooling. Is that funny or what?”

“You stabbed Mr. McSweeny.”

“The hell I did. I never killed no one. After a week or so, I uncuffed one of his hands, and gave him a steak knife. Fucker cut his own throat, and that’s God’s truth.”

“After McSweeny came Maurice.”

“Nope. Next came my father. I invited him over, got all weepy on the phone saying I forgave him. Hit him with a tire iron when he walked in the door. The freak, McSweeny, had all of these ropes and pulleys and shit, so I stripped Dad naked and hung him up. Then I lowered him down on that hat rack. Right up his ass. Funniest damn thing you ever saw. The more he moved, the lower he sunk, the higher the pole went up his poop chute. He lasted almost a month. I’d bring him food and water. That pole got about two feet up him before he finally died.”

“That’s murder, Jane.”

“That’s gravity, cop. If he stayed perfectly still, he would have lived. Blame Isaac Newton.”

“Then Maurice?”

“Then Maurice. When I was honey baking McSweeny, he was anxious to make the pain stop. Gave me all sorts of things. His bank account. His stocks. His car. I went to the dealer who used to sell me crack, bought a needle of H, snuck up on Maurice.”

“You mentioned you used a belt sander.”

“It takes all the skin off, but then gets real slippery. I kept buying belt after belt, until I figured out I could improve the traction if I threw salt on him.”

“How long did you torture Maurice?”

“A few weeks. He’d scab over, then I’d start on him again.”

“So…the guy in the pit?”

“That was the good Reverend Gordon. He got a heroin poke too, and when he woke up, he was chained up in the hole.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Poetic justice. Fucker liked to bite, so I gave him a taste of his own medicine. I went to the pet store, bought a big box of rats. Put them in the pit with him. They were tame at first, but when they got hungry they began to nibble nibble. They started on the soft parts — look, do I have to read anymore?”

“Stick to the script.”

“But you’ve still got your clothes on. You don’t seem into this at all.”

“I pay the money. I make the rules. I want you to finish reading.”

“Look, sugar, I’m the best. Why do you want me to sit here and read when I can make you feel good?”

“Please don’t…”

“Are you crying? Don’t cry, baby. It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. Let me just get these pants off.”

“I don’t want to…”

“I like shy boys. Are you a shy boy? Let’s see how shy you are — Jesus!”

“You…you were supposed to stick with the script.”

“Where’s your cock? You don’t have a fucking cock!”

“You read the story.”

“The story?”

“Reverend…Reverend Gordon.”

“But that was all bullshit, right? Some freaky shit you made up?”

“He…liked to bite…”

“You’re bullshitting me.”

“I’m…a whore…”

“I’m leaving. Open this door.”

“Daddy’s Little Whore…”

“Open this fucking door or I’ll start to scream!”

“McSweeny’s house. Soundproof.”

“You psychotic fucking freak! Let me out!”

“I won’t hurt you. I want you to understand.”

“Get the fuck away from me!”

“You’re a prostitute. You’re a victim too.”

“Let me go!”

“Someone hurt you, right?”

“I want to leave. Please let me leave.”

“You didn’t choose this. You didn’t choose to fuck men for money.”

“I…want to leave.”

“Who hurt you? Your father? Your pimp? You can tell me.”

“I…don’t…”

“I won’t judge you. It’s okay.”

“No…”

“Who was it?”

“Don’t…”

“Who was the monster that made you this way?”

“My…uncle.”

“Your uncle?”

“He’d babysit me. Make me do things.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I…didn’t mean to call you a freak.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“Jesus, I thought my life was shit. But all you went through…”

“It’s okay. From now on, we’re both okay. Come on, I want to show you something.”

“I…I don’t wanna go down there.”

“Trust me. I would never hurt you.”

“What’s that smell?”

“I told you. Smells like ham.”

“That was all true?”

“Most of it. Except they’re all still alive. Meet Mr. John McSweeny.”

“Oh my god…”

“Looks tasty, doesn’t he? I use that wire brush on his burns. Still can coax a few screams out of him. Watch your step, there’s the pit.”

“Oh Jesus…”

“I see the rats finished off most of your face, Gordon. And congratulations! Looks like they also had a litter of hungry babies! You’re a papa!”

“What…what is that?”

“That’s Maurice. Can’t even tell he’s a black guy anymore, can you? That belt sander is quite a tool. Want me to pour some vinegar on him, wake him up?”

“This is all…I can’t believe…”

“I know. It’s a lot to take in. But here’s who I really wanted you to meet. Say hello to my father. The person who turned me into the man I am today. Go on, say hello.”

“Um…hello.”

“He can’t talk, because of the gag. But if you want him to answer, just give the pole a little shake. Like this. Hear that? I think he likes you.”

“He’s…crying.”

“Of course he is. He’s got two feet of hat rack up his ass. Probably punctured all sorts of vital stuff. You want to give the pole a little shake?”

“No…”

“Go ahead. Not too much, though. Just a little tap like this. See? You can hear him screaming in his throat.

“I don’t want to.”

“Yes you do. You’re a victim, just like me. The only way to stop being a victim is to fight back. Go on.”

“I really don’t…”

“Stop playing the victim.”

“But…”

“Fight back. It’s the only way you’ll be able to live with yourself. Put your hand on the pole.”

“This isn’t right.”

“Raping children isn’t right. Pretend it’s your uncle hanging there. Remember all the things he did to you.”

“My uncle. That fucking son of a bitch.”

“Whoa! Hold on! You’re going to kill him, shaking it that hard. Ease back.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Yes you did. Felt good didn’t it?”

“I…I thought of killing him so many times.”

“Death is too good for men like that. He doesn’t need killing. He needs to be shown the error of his ways. Oh…don’t cry. It’s okay. No one is ever going to hurt you, ever again. I promise. There there.”

“Can we…can we…”

“Can we find your uncle and bring him here?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course we can, dear. Of course we can.”

I
’m a huge horror movie fan, dating back to the creature features and Twilight Zone reruns on UHF Channel 32 in the mid-seventies. If you ever visit a Jaycee’s haunted house on Halloween, or ride a roller coaster, you’ll hear both screams and laughter. The two emotions are closely tied.

Since writing is about provoking emotion in the reader, I try to use as much fear and as much humor as I can in my stories. Fear is universal. It connects us as human beings. And being scared is a blast.

My bookcase is filled with thousands of horror novels and anthologies, from the traditional standbys of King and Koontz, to the splatterpunk gorefests of Jack Ketchum and Ed Lee, to the British shocks of Graham Masterton and James Herbert.

I tend to jump around sub-genres when writing horror. I don’t mind going for the gross out, but I also like to poke fun and make jokes. Even my darkest horror stories could be classified as black comedy if you look hard enough. Though I write some scary and disturbing stuff, it’s always done with a wink.

My Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels thrillers all contain healthy doses of horror. Jack chases some pretty frightening criminals, and if reading those scary sections doesn’t make you lock your doors and turn on all your lights you probably have a heart made of stone.

In 2009, I wrote a horror novel called
Afraid
under the pen name Jack Kilborn. Since then I’ve written two other Kilborn books (they’ll be released eventually.) In the meantime, here’s a big dose of primal fear, aimed right at your jugular. Make sure your doors are locked…

This is my very first published story, which was published right after I sold Whiskey Sour. It centers on a theme I’ve gone back to often in my fiction. This appeared in the magazine Horror Garage, which featured a girl on the cover with her face soaked in blood. My mom didn’t pass out copies at her job.

“E
at it.”

Billy pushed his plate away.

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

A pout appeared on his shiny little face. A miniature version of Josh’s. Marge could remember when it used to be cute.

“You haven’t even tried it. I made it different today. Just take a bite.”

“No.”

Marge could feel the tension build in her neck, like cables beneath the skin.

“Billy, honey, you need to eat. Look how skinny you’re getting.”

“I want an apple.”

“We’ve been over this Billy. There are no apples. There won’t be any apples ever again.”

He crossed his arms. So thin. His elbows and wrists looked huge.

“I want a Twinkie.”

Marge’s mouth quivered, got wet.

“Billy, please don’t…”

“I want McDonald’s french fries, and a Coke.”

A deep breath.

“Billy, we don’t have any of those things anymore. Since they dropped all those bombs, we have to make do with what’s available. Now please, you need to eat.”

She pushed the plate back towards her son. His portion of meat was small, scarcely the size of a cracker. Pale and greasy. Marge eyed it and felt her stomach rumble.

It’s for Billy, she chastened herself.

But if he didn’t want it…

Marge killed the thought and looked away for some distraction.

She failed.

After three months in the shelter, there was nothing left to distract herself with.

She knew every inch of the tiny room like she knew her own body. The shelves, once stocked with canned goods, were empty. The TV and radio didn’t work. The three dirty cots smelled like body odor, and the sump hole in the corner had long overflowed with urine and feces. No view, no entertainment, no escape.

Josh had built the shelter because he wanted his family to live. But was this living?

Marge turned to her son, the tears coming. “We’re going to make it, Billy. I promise. But you need to eat. Please.”

“No.” Billy’s own eyes began to glaze. “I want Daddy.”

“I know you do. But Daddy left, Billy. He knew we didn’t have enough food. So he made a sacrifice for you and me.”

“I wish Daddy was here.”

Tears burned her cheeks.

“He’s here, Billy.” She patted her chest. “He’s here, inside of us, and he always will be.”

Billy narrowed his eyes. “You hit Daddy on the head.”

Marge recoiled as if slapped.

“No, Billy. Your father made a sacrifice.”

“He did not. You hit him on the head while he was asleep.”

Billy picked up the small piece of meat and threw it at his mother.

“I don’t want to eat Daddy anymore!”

Marge scooped up the meat, sobbing. It tasted salty. She didn’t want to take food from her son, but she needed the strength for what came next.