Horror Stories: A Macabre Collection (4 page)

He grabbed a can of Budweiser from the fridge
and sat his ass into the same spot on the couch where he always
sat. He dug out the remote from within the couch and turned on the
television. He skimmed the channels briefly but stopped when he
landed on an episode of COPS. He sipped his beer and was soon
surrounded on all sides by his fuzzy roommates. He had a few more
beers and a few more episodes of COPS before he decided to get to
sleep early.

After he was cozy under his blankets he could
hear squirrels fighting on the rooftop. Their screeching and
skittering was enough to keep him from sleep and put the dogs on
edge. He shrugged it off, but the noises continued throughout the
night. He woke several times to odd animal noises. Carter even
walked over to the window to see what the hell was going on out
there but it was too dark to tell.

Early in the morning, after a night of the
worst kind of sleeping, the dogs began to bark wildly at the
creatures outside. Now that the sun was coming up the dogs could
see the culprits. Carter walked over to the window once again,
rubbing his eyelids apologetically. He pulled open the curtains and
could feel the heat trying to get inside already. After his eyes
adjusted to the light, he could make out hundreds of birds in the
trees and atop the nearby homes. Squirrels, chipmunks, and even a
few rabbits could be seen moving about sporadically. Carter noticed
there was something unnatural about the movements the animals made.
And the amount of birds was just downright bizarre—they weren’t
even making any noise, all lined up as quiet as could be.

Carter’s stomach twisted and he felt
nauseous. He could feel something wasn’t right. He sat down and
turned on the television—white noise. He went into the other room
and turned on the radio. As he did so, something smacked into the
window of that room. He ran over to the window and stared into the
mangled face of a bat with tattered wings. It had congealed blood
all over itself, and its wings were not fit for flight—yet it
managed to cling to the sill and keep itself up. Carter gasped and
jumped back, nearly stumbling over his own feet. The dogs rushed
past him and began jumping and barking at the grotesque-looking
bat. Rabies came to the forefront of Carter’s mind. Bats didn’t fly
around in broad daylight. Least not the bats around here, his mind
whirled—the bat had bites, and was covered in blood—it had to be
rabid.

Before his mind could run around with any
other thoughts, several birds swooped down to join the bat on the
windowsill. They sat unnaturally, their feathers covered in blood.
Some of them had cracked beaks and missing eyes. One was even
missing most of its leg. The dogs continued to bark, and more birds
gathered at the window. One began to peck at the glass. Then
another, and another did the same. TIK TIK TIK, the glass began to
splinter and chip.

Carter called out to the dogs, and as the
glass began to splinter more he screamed for them. They ignored
him, focusing on the birds and lonesome bat that were in the
process of breaking through the glass and flying in. Carter ran to
the dogs, grabbing Lucky and Bee-bo by their collars while calling
for Rusty. He barely managed to pull the two large dogs out of the
room. As Rusty begrudgingly followed, the glass finally gave way.
The sound of tattered wings and breaking glass flooded the room.
Carter slammed the door shut. The radio broadcast was nothing more
than unheard background noise. Aside from what he’d just
experienced, Carter knew nothing of what was going on. He could
hear the room swell with the sound of flight. He noticed they made
no other noise, no screeching or cawing—just the noise of wings
flapping, feet skittering, and beaks now pecking at the door. He
could see wings, feet, and beaks trying to reach him and the dogs
from the thin separation of door and floor. He stepped back, still
trying to handle the dogs. From the bedroom erupted the sound of
glass shattering again—this was turning out to be one hell of a
morning, Carter thought. He heard what was becoming a familiar
noise—the flapping of ruined wings—and ran, pulling the dogs. Rusty
was smart enough to follow along without being commanded.

Carter ran for the basement. The flutter of
wings and the sounds of small bodies bouncing off the walls
followed behind him. He opened the basement door and the dogs
darted past him, nearly knocking him over. He slammed the door shut
and leaned against it as kamikaze birds rammed into the door.
THUP-THUP-THUP-THUP, the barrage was seemingly endless and shed new
light on the term birdbrain.

The dogs stood at the top of the steps. Their
voices became hoarse as they continued to bark. Carter’s head
swirled and ached as he fumbled clumsily for the light switch. He
found it and flicked it on, illuminating the small, dirty, and
unfinished basement. He descended the stairs. What the hell is
going on?, he thought, but was unable to answer himself. After a
few moments Bee-bo gave up the ghost and sat next to his master at
the foot of the steps. Lucky and Rusty quickly followed. Bee-bo
licked Carter’s hand and Carter smiled at his friend, staring into
the dog’s deep, dark eyes. Something was wrong, something was very
fucking wrong, he thought, and Bee-bo knew it too.

Carter looked around the small basement. He
had no radio, no television, no phone, no food—nothing but the damp
basement and the dim light. He scratched at his beard, not knowing
what else to do. He could hear the fluttering of birds, and at
least one bat, above his head. He didn’t want to think of how much
the repairs to the house would cost—windows weren’t cheap, and from
the sounds of it, that would be the least of his worries. New
sounds went through the house: raccoons maybe, cats, dogs,
squirrels for sure—they were everywhere as it was, anyway—he could
hear the odd hopping that must’ve been a rabbit. Then he heard the
phone ring. His eyes widened and he moved toward the door, pressing
his ear forward, trying to listen. After several rings, the
answering machine picked up. It was Sarah. Her voice sounded shaky.
He wanted to run out there and pick up the phone. They hadn’t
spoken to each other directly in weeks and he just wanted to hear
her voice. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, and it killed
him. He couldn’t hear her anymore. The machine beeped to signify
the end of the call. Carter sighed and returned to the bottom of
the stairs. Lucky had something pinned underfoot and halfway
devoured—it was a field mouse. Carter pushed Lucky aside and could
tell that the field mouse was no ordinary mouse—its hair was matted
with dried blood clinging to its body in clumps, and it had small
bite marks that Lucky was much too large to make. Carter felt sick.
He looked at Lucky, knowing she stood a good chance of getting
whatever it was that made the animals go crazy. Carter scooped up
the half-eaten mouse with an old box and set it aside. Bee-bo and
Rusty kept their distance from Lucky, and she did the same. She
knew she was sick. She sat at the far end of the room licking her
paws and occasionally looking in their direction. Carter’s eyes
grew red. These dogs were not just pets. They were his family—his
children. He loved them more than anything, and he feared what he
may have to do to Lucky to prevent her from infecting Bee-bo and
Rusty. He looked around the room for something capable of putting
her down if need be, and he prayed that he wouldn’t have to.

But there was only a hammer, an old baseball
bat (which had been chewed to all hell by the dogs), and a few
other items. It would be no easy task if it had to go down that
way.

He and the dogs had only been in the basement
mere minutes, though to Carter it felt like an eternity. How had a
completely ordinary morning gone so rotten?, Carter wondered. Lucky
looked sickly after a few minutes. Her continued licking resulted
in clumps of hair coming off with the slightest dry lick of her
tongue. Her breathing was labored and raspy, as if ready to cough
or fade away entirely. Carter looked at her with what must’ve been
the saddest set of eyes his face had ever held. Bee-bo and Rusty
kept their distance, their faces sad, yet stern.

A few more minutes passed and Lucky breathed
no more. Carter went over to her, his eyes red and rimmed with the
salty tears of his sorrow. The other dogs began to bark furiously
as Carter stepped closer to Lucky. Lucky raised her head, still not
breathing. Her jaw hung slack and her dried tongue dangled over it.
Carter breathed a sigh of relief and turned back around. Behind
him, Lucky managed to stiffly get to her feet. Bee-bo and Rusty
barked with venom as Lucky staggered forward. Carter turned, and as
he laid eyes on Lucky he jumped—she looked terrible, lifeless.
Bee-bo lowered her head and hunched her shoulders back. He was
ready to pounce on her to protect his master and friend. Rusty was
in a similar stance but his was not as urgent or as angry—Rusty was
hesitant. Lucky continued to close the distance and as her foot
touched ground once again, Bee-bo lunged at her. He charged head on
and knocked her to the side. He slammed her against the side of the
staircase. She didn’t huff, and didn’t seem phased in the
slightest. She had no emotional response. She turned her attention
to Bee-bo, as he was ready to pounce again. He rammed her with his
head, knocking her back once again, but not eliciting any response.
Rusty stood hesitant in the background, and Carter stood
dumbfounded next to him. They watched as Bee-bo attacked Lucky once
again. This time he bared his teeth and bit into her throat. Lucky
shook like a doll between the massive vice of his jaw. Thick, soupy
blood dripped from her neck and trickled down Bee-bo’s throat. He
wrestled her to the ground, where she lay only momentarily before
getting back to her feet. Carter couldn’t believe what he was
seeing. He grabbed the old baseball bat and readied himself to
swing. Bee-bo stopped fighting, sensing that something was wrong
within his body. He backed away from Lucky, whimpering in defeat—he
had lost.

Carter swung the bat over Lucky’s head. She
slumped to the ground without making a sound. Carter’s eyes filled
with tears and began to flow as he brought the bat down a second
time, and a third, and a fourth. Rusty whimpered behind him,
bringing his body to the floor and covering his eyes with his paws.
Carter dropped the bat on the ground. He sobbed heavily. Lucky
didn’t get back up. Bee-bo continued to whine. Carter returned his
rump to the warm spot on the stairs where it had been before, his
head in his hands. He dreaded the moment when he would have to put
Bee-bo down the same way. Minutes later, Bee-bo stopped breathing,
yet he rose to his feet. He had the same lifeless look that Lucky
had. Carter put him down for good, splintering the bat many times
over, until it was useless. He turned to look at Rusty, who
remained on the ground with his paws shielding his eyes from the
horror in the room. Carter sat next to him, patting his head.
Neither of them had ever looked worse. Carter stared at the
ceiling, listening to the noise of the many creatures roaming
around his house. He wondered how long he had before they found a
way down to the basement, or how long before he had to venture out.
Maybe someone will come and get me out of here, he thought, then he
laughed. He laughed for a good long time.

* * * * *

Traveling Terrors

* * * * *

His knee popped under the terrible strain of
the beast on his back. He fought to remain upright but as the
piecemeal thing brought down the full brunt of its weight upon the
man’s back his bones screamed, splintering shards of bone through
his knee and leg. The man screamed as the crowd cheered on in
joy.

“Finish him!” The crowd chanted, stomping
their feet in near unison.

The man writhed on the ground clutching his
splintered leg, tears and snot bubbled at his lips as he begged for
his life. The other fighter circled him, limping with his long
malformed arm ready to swing and the small child’s arm that was
surgically attached at the shoulder motioning for the crowd to spur
him on. They did. The piecemeal man, known simply as The Cannibal
to the crowd, lunged on top of the man and bit off part of his
cheek. The man reeled in pain, his vision red. The Cannibal bit
down again, this time tearing skin from his neck. The man clutched
at his neck with both hands, squirming to try and get out from
under the weight of The Cannibal but it was of no use. The Cannibal
stood up, spurring on the crowd.

“You want blood?” He screamed.

The crowd went wild.

“You got it!” The Cannibal jumped into the
air and dropped down on the man’s face with his knee.

The man didn’t scream; he just lay there
twitching. The Cannibal began to feast as the announcer stepped
into the cage.

“Let’s hear it for The Cannibal!” The
announcer shouted theatrically.

“Is there anyone else brave enough to step
into the ring? One thousand dollars to the man, woman, or child who
can take on THE CANNIBAL… and live!” The announcer said.

No one stood up.

“No? You’re all too chicken-shit? Oh, I see
you’re here to watch. A crowd of voyeurs and non-participants have
we tonight?”

A man stood up from the crowd, holding up his
hand. He wore simple jeans, a dirty white shirt, and a leather
jacket.

“You there! You want to step in the ring or
are you just stretching your poor little legs?”

The man remained silent. He began walking
down the steep steps as the crowd watched him in anticipation.

“Ah, the silent, brooding type I see,” the
announcer joked.

The crowd laughed. The man was now standing
mere feet from the announcer, taking off his leather jacket. “Open
the cage,” he ordered.