SHALLOW GRAVES (A Gravedigger Story)

Genre: Horror/Suspense 

SHALLOW GRAVES (A Gravedigger Story)

By

Daniel Skye

            Florida… The Sunshine State. The home of Disney World, Universal Studios, and other various money-gobbling tourist traps.

            And now the home of Sid Hodder AKA Charles Gein AKA the infamous Gravedigger. Gein was using the alias Patrick Downey until his latest victim was able to identify him. The jig was up and it was time to move on.

            Enter Sid Hodder, some poor schmuck who had the bad luck of using the same restroom that Gein was holed up in.

            Nobody knows what happened to the real Sid Hodder’s body. Probably buried in an unmarked grave somewhere between New York and Florida.

            Gein cut his hair shorter and dyed it jet-black, grew out a mustache and used a new picture to forge Hodder’s driver license and pass it off as his own. Their height, weight, and eye color matched precisely, so no one could question the stats. And they were around the same age too, so the date of birth was just something Gein had to memorize verbatim.

            His social security and credit cards were found in the wallet Gein had relieved him of. And the keys to his condo were attached to the set in his pocket.

            He had all the essentials required to start over in a new place. A new place to practice his sadistic craft. And as it had been a group of meddling slackers that discovered his latest victim and caused his sudden departure, he had his sight set on redemption. All he needed was the right group of vulnerable teenagers and the work could resume.

            And he was going to need a new workshop as Sid Hodder’s condo was not soundproof and the construction of his trademark coffins would attract too much unwanted attention. So he searched through the local papers and found a small factory for rent two miles from the condo. It was spacious, came well-equipped, and most importantly to Gein, it was isolated. Not another piece of property for blocks.

            He paid cash so as not to leave a paper trail and he picked up right where he left off in Westlake, Long Island. It was just like riding a bicycle to Gein. You never forget.

            And by the time Gein had acquired the factory, his five targets had already been selected.

* * *

            Gary Hawke. Rachel Dawson. Bret Shields. Nick Pullman. Jill Hayward. Collectively referred to as the Pyro Crew–a self-professed title for their group. Or the “Pryo Crew” as Nick had once spray-painted on the partition of a men’s room stall. The graffiti had garnered the attention of local authorities after the five of them had been caught setting bottle rockets off in Hester Park.

            It was a Public Safety officer who had apprehended them before turning them over to the real police. The cops were curious about the graffiti. Not mad about it. And they never even asked Pullman to pay for the damages.

            They wanted to know if the five of them were responsible for setting that same park restroom on fire three months before. Nick had forgotten all about the fire until the cops mentioned it, and naturally he denied it.

            But it wasn’t Nick who started the fire. It wasn’t any member of the Pyro Crew. And if they had known it was the work of Rodney Hughes and his crew, they would’ve confessed without the thought of merit. Seeing the cops bust Rodney Hughes would’ve rewarded them enough.

But alas, they didn’t know about it until Rodney confessed months later. He was smart enough to state it would be their word versus his, and they knew he was right. Too much time had passed and the cops weren’t concerned about torched restrooms anymore. They were wrapped up in the string of missing person cases.

Something awful was happening in the tiny little town of Hester. Awful enough to warrant an eight o’clock curfew for kids under eighteen. And by ten o’clock, the whole town shuts down. Open your window and all you can hear are the engines of patrol cars as the cops cruise the neighborhoods.

            But no curfew ever stopped the Pyro Crew from having a good time.

            They all returned home at eight o’clock to check in with their parents and after dinner, told their folks they’d be turning in early. Then they used the old climb out the window trick and rendezvoused at Hester Swamp.

            Gary Hawke brought a bottle of Fireball and Bret Shields brought an eighteen-pack of ice cold beer. Jill and Rachel brought flashlights. And Nick brought a bag of M-80s.

            Jill traded Gary the bottle for one of her flashlights and he led the way. It was a moonless night and the green of the swamp was virtually invisible. As was the water. The flashlights were their only means of visibility.

            Dead leaves crunched underfoot as Gary led them through the narrow trails of the swamp to their usual spot. His flashlight beamed across the tree where he had carved GARY AND MINDY 4EVER. This was the indicator that they had reached the spot. Mindy was a girl Gary had dated for two months, then dumped her for Jill.

            Their flashlights found the hollow log they used as a makeshift bench and they parked their asses as Bret started distributing beers amongst the group. Jill cracked open the bottle of Fireball and took a big swig before passing it back to Gary.

            Hawke took a swig and offered some to Rachel, who politely declined.

            “You know Rachel doesn’t mix beer and liquor,” Jill castigated Gary. “She’s the only one of us that has any sense.”

            “I just prefer beer over liquor,” Rachel answered for herself. “Beer I can swallow.”

            “Beers not the only thing I’ve seen you swallow,” Bret quipped.

            “Pervert,” she sneered. “Why are all men such gross pervs?”

            “It’s in our nature,” Bret explained. “It’s like an instinct all of us are born with. Some of us just use it better than others.” He looked directly at Gary while saying it.

            “What is that supposed to mean?” Gary asked. “Was that about me?”

            “Gary, you’re my bud. But you act like a gentleman and like you’re all high and mighty and above objectifying women, but deep down you’re a pervert like the rest of us. You’re just better at hiding it and using it to your advantage.”

            “Fuck off,” Gary spewed. “Just because you’re a hopeless pervert, doesn’t mean you have to drag me down with you. I show women respect and that’s why they prefer my company over yours. It’s that simple.”

            “Guys, cool your jets,” Nick said, but it sounded more like begging. “There’s no reason to fight. We’re here to have a good time. No need to spoil it with a dick measuring contest.”

            “Just one girls curiosity, but what is the definition of a dick measuring contest?” Jill asked. “Do guys actually whip them out and measure it to see who’s bigger?”

            “Nope,” Nick said, trying to contain his laughter. “It’s just a term used for when two guys are in a standoff while trying to prove their masculinity. Usually neither man backs down, and it gets ugly.”

            “It’s not going to come to that,” Gary assured the girls. “Bret is just being himself.”

            “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

            Before the brewing drama could escalate, the crunching of fallen leaves drew their attention in the opposite direction where three shadows were rapidly approaching. Rachel cast her light over the three shadows and Rodney Hughes’ face was briefly illuminated before she drew the light away.

It was Hughes and his two cronies, Belcher and Franz. Franz was a foreign exchange student who had been living in America just long enough to start sounding ambiguously American. But he didn’t quite have the lingo down yet.

“Lookie what we have here,” Rodney chimed.

“What shit is this?” Franz asked. “You gonna circle jerk yourselves?”

“Actually we’re waiting for your mother to get here from France so we can run a train on that fat bitch,” Bret fired back.

“I’m German, you ash-hole.”

“Well your ash-hole should’ve stayed in Germany,” Bret said as he got up from the log. Gary followed his movements, instinct carrying him to his feet, hands clenched into fists, ready for anything. Nick mimicked his actions, but kept a safe distance between himself and Hughes and his flunkies.

In seconds, Hawke and Belcher were face-to-face, as were Bret and Franz. Belcher’s lips parted and he did just what his name boasted–he belched right in Hawke’s face. The stench of onions hitting Hawke right in the face. It was worse than any punch Belcher was capable of throwing. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

            “Or what?”

            “Or what? I’ll hit you so fucking hard your momma’s momma will feel it, bitch.”

            “Try it,” Belcher egged him on.

            A thunderous bang of what Hawke assumed was an ignited M-80 echoed through the swamp, and Rodney and company ran like scared rabbits. They went from being shadows to being blurs in the night to being completely gone from their sight in moments.

            “Way to go,” Bret said, turning around to applaud Nick. “That M-80 sent them scattering. They must’ve thought it was a gunshot.”

            “It might’ve been,” Nick shrugged. “I never set off any M-80.”

            “What?”

            “That noise, it wasn’t me. I didn’t see off any of my firecrackers. I was scared shitless. That thought never even crossed my mind.”

            “Um, guys…” Jill started but trailed off.

            “What is it now?” Bret moaned.

            “Rachel is missing.”

            “What do you mean, missing?” Gary asked.

            “Well, do you see her anywhere around?”

            Gary scanned the area with his flashlight and saw Rachel was nowhere in sight. “Rachel!” he called, the echo carrying throughout the swamp. But Rachel never answered those calls.

            “Do you think she got scared by that noise and ran off in the other direction?” Nick asked.

            “Only one way to find out,” Gary shrugged and grabbed the bottle of Fireball.

            “What, you want to go looking for her?” Bret asked, as if abandoning a friend was a viable option.

            “We’re not just leaving her behind,” Gary said and admonished him just for suggesting it.

            “What’d you grab the bottle of Fireball for?” Jill asked.

            “For the walk. Duh.”

* * *

            “Rachel!” Jill screamed until her throat was strained.

            “Give it up,” Bret sighed. “She’s not going to answer. She probably got spooked and ran all the way home. That’s where we should be right now–home.”

            “Let’s keep searching,” Gary insisted. He took a swig of the Fireball and passed it to Jill who nervously quaffed it down. She passed what was left of it to Nick who took a tiny swig and let Bret finish the rest. He figured the liquor might mellow Bret out a bit.

            As they walked, Gary’s flashlight grazed upon one of Rachel’s white flip flops. A few yards from that, they found the second flip flop. And just up ahead, they found Rachel’s torn blouse. Past that, her skirt. And past that, a trail of blood that sent them running in that direction

            The trails of the swamp ended, but the trail of blood continued to the wrought-iron gates of the nearby cemetery. The entrance was wide open, almost beckoning them to trespass.

            They crossed the threshold and continued to follow the trail with their flashlights. It ended where their flashlights discovered five unmarked graves, four of those graves still waiting to be filled.

            “Just one question,” an unfamiliar voice rang out through the dark. “How long can you hold your breath?”

NEWBORN

Genre: Horror/Science Fiction

NEWBORN

By

Daniel Skye

            Brad Stark refused to admit that they were lost. He knew they were, but if he uttered that slight admission of guilt, Julie Stark would never let him hear the end of it. She was already giving him an earful about his irrational choice to leave the highway.

            It had been thirty minutes since Brad had abandoned the bumper-to-bumper traffic of Route 27, opting for the more scenic Route 25. It was this manic decision that had knocking them off course, and Julie had no intention of letting him forget it.

            Julie insisted they stop at the next filling station to grab a road-map or ask for directions, but Brad declined to stop, insisting he knew how to find Braxton from Route 25.

            “Just admit we’re lost,” Julie said demandingly.

            “We’re not lost,” Brad kept insisting. “We’re going to see signs for Braxton any minute. You just wait and see.”

            “I’ve been waiting for over thirty minutes,” Julie said, exasperation in her voice. She brushed back her sandy blonde hair and rolled her green eyes with a look of sheer frustration. “You can never admit when you’re wrong. Just like you and what’s-her-name? Shelia?”

            Brad figured it was just a matter of time before she started in with the affair.

            “What was it about Shelia that made you want to risk it all?”

            “Julie, not now,” he sighed, growing exasperated with the conversation himself.

            “Then when, Brad? I want to talk about this. I want to know exactly how you felt about her. What she meant to you.”

            “She didn’t mean anything to me.”

            “That’s terrible!” she proclaimed.

            “Would you have been happier if I said I was madly in love with her?”

            “If you said that, at least maybe I could understand on some level. I could understand that she meant something, anything to you. But the way you put it makes it seem like she was nothing more than an object to you. Something you just have your fun with until you wear it out and throw it away, right? Was that it, Brad?”

            “Can you just chill, Julie? We’re on our way to my uncle’s funeral, for Christ’s sake.”

            “Uncle Ned was more of a man than you ever will be, I can tell you that.” She was getting personal now, trying to see how deep she could get under his skin. She had succeeded in perforating his deceptively weak exterior and was carving her way underneath.

            Brad was built like an MMA fighter, and you wouldn’t guess it by looking at him, but he could be quite sensitive. Saying one wrong thing could easily tick him off, and Julie was a master at this. She knew all the right buttons to push.

His palm itched to slap her as his hand reached for the dial on the radio and cranked up the volume, hoping to drown out her relentless nagging. The radio was set to an all classic rock station and Ozzy Osbourne’s voice wailed through the speakers.

            Going off the rails on a crazy train? He thought. I’m the fucking conductor. And this whiny little shrew is my one and only passenger. ’Til death do us part. Let’s hope that day comes sooner than later for one of us.

            Julie saw it before her husband did. It was an animal neither had ever seen before. One of its legs was badly maimed, likely from the tires of another passing motorist. Its body was similarly structured to a porcupine’s body, its brownish-yellow fur adorned with sharp spines. Only these spines were thicker and shorter in length than that of porcupines, and almost resembled spikes to Brad. Most troubling was that the spikes seemed to pulse, contracting and expanding, as if each individual spike was a living, breathing organism.

            Down the road, Brad could make out a sign: Welcome to the Town of Spring Harbor. Evidently, Julie saw it too.

            “We’ll see signs for Braxton any minute, huh?” she muttered, kneeled down in the road.

            “Shit,” Brad said after a lengthy search of his pockets and his Altima. “I forgot my phone. Do you have your cell?”

            “Why?”

            “So we can call animal control or something. It’s still alive. They can help it.”

            “They probably won’t even know what it is,” she said, almost shouting. “Do you?”

            “No,” he shrugged. “But we can’t just leave it in the road for someone else to hit.”

            A thick fog had begun to creep in from the bay. Green and ominous, it quickly enveloped their surroundings. So much that Brad was almost clipped by an oncoming police cruiser.

The cruiser had seen Brad at the last second, swerved, and pumped his brakes in a panic, screeching to a dead halt in the center of the road.

            “What in the bloody hell are you doing standing out in the middle of the road?” Officer Fleming shouted as he exited his cruiser. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. Is that what you’re looking to do, pal?”

            “I’m sorry, officer. My wife and I saw this thing out in the road. It looked hurt, so I stopped to take a look.”

            Fleming didn’t notice it immediately through the dense fog, but soon it became clear. And the sight was enough to make him recoil and draw his service revolver.

            “What are you doing?” Brad shouted.

            “What needs to be done,” Fleming stated frankly.

            “It’s just a helpless animal,” Julie cried.

            “It’s not an animal,” Fleming shook his defiantly. “It’s an abomination. You notice the fog? Has it ever looked this green to you before, this thick? This is a sign. They’re near. And when they come, this is what they’ll be looking for. But they’re not going to find it. Instead they’re going to find a double barreled shotgun and a case of Molotov cocktails waiting for them.”

            “Who are they?” Brad asked, looking deep into Fleming’s eye. This was not madness, hysteria. Brad could determine this man, no matter how absurd he sounded, was being genuine. He truly believed this spikey little creature to be a demon from another dimension.

            Brad and Julie Stark stood amazed and horrified as Fleming recounted the tale his dad had once told him. A tale he hadn’t believed until he witnessed it firsthand. His father spoke of a rainy night in the mid-eighties, a thick green fog that had slipped in from the bay, and the horrid abominations the fog had brought along with it.

            The wounded creature that lay at their feet was nothing more than an infant, their latest spawn. And somehow, Fleming surmised it to be the key to their twisted bloodline.

            Kill the newborn, destroy the horde. That was Fleming’s theory.

            His father had given these awful creatures a name. He dubbed them The Desecrators. Creatures from beyond this world. Creatures without knowledge of morals or values. Creatures incapable of comprehending sympathy.

            “I’m not doubting you,” Brad spoke, “But how do you know all this? And how can you know for sure this thing is just an infant?”

            “Because I was there when it was born, and I was there when they came to claim it the first time. Back in 2005, when the fog crept in from the bay and these things emerged, seven people lost their loves. Shelly Coach blacked out. And six weeks later, discovered she was pregnant. She doesn’t know how or why. Shelly and her husband hadn’t had sex in eight months. And she denied allegations of an affair. Shelly Coach died during the delivery.

But that’s a mild way of stating it. She was torn in pieces trying to deliver this atrocity. Then in 2006, the fog came again, and Desecrators came to claim what was theirs. Ten people lost their lives this time. Jump forward to today in the year 2007, the Desecrators are set to return. And I’m ready to do what’s necessary. Please don’t stand in my way. Let me kill it. Let me do what needs to be done.”

            “How can you be sure it will work?” Brad questioned.

            “There’s only one way to find out.”

            “You said it’s just a baby. What harm can it do?”

            “It’s not the harm it can do. It’s the harm it will bring when those things come to claim it.”

            “What if we help you?” Brad proposed, stunned by the words that had just escaped his mouth. But he continued. “Will you spare its life?”

            A terrible shriek echoed in the distance. Seconds later, another shriek. And this one was already much closer than the first.

            “If we’re going to do this, we better get a move on. I’ll radio for backup. I know just who to call.”

            Fleming put in a call to Jake and Burt Austin, two fishing buddies with an affinity for heavy artillery. He gave the Austin’s their exact location and their ETA was ten minutes.

            They arrived in five, locked and loaded.

            Fleming had been waiting for this all morning, and along with his double barreled shotgun, a case of twelve Molotov cocktails sat in the backseat of his police cruiser.

            As the hideous shrieks drew closer, Fleming instructed Brad and Julie on what to do. “Ever use a gun before?”

            “I have,” Brad said. “She hasn’t.”

            “I don’t believe in it,” Julie said, defending her choice.

            “Well you better start believing,” Fleming suggested. “This is a Beretta. The clip is spring loaded. Press this button to release and pop in a new clip to reload. It holds ten rounds and it’s already loaded. This top part here is the hammer. Cock this back with your finger after every shot. Squeeze the trigger to fire, and don’t fire unless you have one of these suckers in your sight. Don’t waste bullets. Got it?”

            “Got it,” she repeated. “Don’t waste bullets. Pull the trigger to make things die.”

            “I sense sarcasm.”

            “Your senses are overwhelmingly powerful.”

            “I’m still sensing it.”

            Their sophomoric banter was cut short by the sound of squealing brakes as another car approached in the fog and came to a stop. The door of the Stingray open and out stepped Herman Coach.

            “Julie and Brad Stark, meet Herman Coach. He’s a physicist, and husband of the late Shelly Coach. He could explain this better than I ever could. And if you’re a sci-fi geek you’re in for a treat.”

            “Pleasure to meet you,” Herman started out, and then jumped right in without letting either of them respond. “Back in the 60’s, Spring Harbor was used by the government for experimental purposes. They set up camp just outside of town and nobody really knows for sure what went down. But the rumor going around was that the government was investing money in time travel experiments. They wanted to see if it was possible.

            My theory is that these experiments tore a hole in our universe and created a rift in the fourth dimension. A rift that allows these creatures, the ones that Fleming here sees fit to call the Desecrators, to gain access to our world. The fog that accompanies them is not of this earth, it comes from their dimension, a place I call Planet X.”

            “Planet X,” Julie rolled her eyes. “How original.”

            “Do you believe Fleming’s theory that if we kill the newborn we can stop the Desecrators?” Brad asked Coach.

            “I’m not certain of that. I am certain that this child is important to them. If it wasn’t, they wouldn’t have gone to great lengths to impregnate my life and come back to claim it.”

            Julie screamed suddenly and the men all turned their attention to her exclamation of horror.

            Three of them stood in the mist. Vile abominations. Retched beasts.

            The leader of the pack was nine feet tall. Six arms neatly crossed in three rows along its ample gray chest. Pyramidal head rested upon broad shoulders adorned with jagged spikes.

            The second appeared as a woman through the dense green fog, her face distorted and frozen in a state of perpetual agony. But once the fog parted, they realized that horrified façade was not her own, but rather a mask of darkened flesh sewn into her own green-skinned face. Two spiraled horns protruded from her elongated, misshapen skull.

            The third had narrow black wings that fluttered effortlessly, cutting through the fog. The wings clearly made up for its lack of legs. As did the claws it possessed, which looked similar to the claws of a wolverine. Even through the dense green fog, Brad could see its eyes were two red beams.

            “FIRE!” Fleming shouted, and the shooting commenced.

            The shots were deafening, and the fog made it difficult to be on target. But Brad was certain he had fired six straight shots at the nine foot behemoth and it just kept coming.

            Jake Austin was the first to go. The face-skinner got him. Sunk her teeth right into his throat and ripped open his jugular. Blood spurted through the mist in quick jets as Jake collapsed to the ground and ceased moving.

            “INCOMING!” Burt cried, and the thunderous bang of a grenade sent everyone scattering. Brad narrowly escaped the blast, but was unsure of Julie’s fate.

            His hearing had been affected by the blast and he couldn’t even hear his own screams as he called out her name.

            “Help! HELP!” The screams were those of Fleming’s, who was being hoisted into the air by the six-armed beast. Two hands gripped him tightly by the waist while two other hands snatched Fleming’s arms and spread them apart. The final pairs of hands had Fleming’s skull in a vise-like grip.

Brad stood in awe as Fleming’s body was pulled and stretched with such force that he tore in half down the center. The tear started at the center of his forehead and continued along the bridge of his nose, bisected his lips, ran down his chest and stomach, and ended at his crotch. He was split in half like a piece of lumber.

Burt was pumping round after round from his shotgun. When that approach failed, he yanked the pin of another grenade with his teeth and hurled it through the air. The grenade struck the ground, rolled across the pavement and stopped under Fleming’s police cruiser.

            The blast not only totaled Fleming’s cruiser, but ignited the case of Molotov cocktails in the backseat. A ball of fire shot into the air and Brad saw Herman Coach thrown twenty feet from the explosion.

            The winged creature was soaring through the air, shrieking as its back and wings were engulfed in flames. The pyramidal beast was also scorched but showed no signs of pain or defeat. Brad had wrapped the newborn in his coat and had dropped to his knees in a mark of surrender, and presented the child to the beast in the hopes that the carnage would cease.

            His eyes were squeezed shut, but he felt the weight of the child leave his hands and he waited for his impending demise. But when he looked up and opened his eyes, the beasts back was turned to him and it was marching away with the child.

When the dust had settled and the fog cleared, those monstrosities had vacated. But their presence was evident in the bloody carnage and wreckage that had been left in their wake.

“Need a lift into town?” Brad asked a morose Burt, as his pickup truck and the police cruiser had been destroyed in the war they had waged. A war Brad or Julie could never speak to another living soul for fear or ridicule or mockery. A story no one would believe no matter how hard they tried to convince them. But the important thing was that they had survived. And somehow, the macabre ordeal had brought them closer together. He knew by the look in her eyes that Shelia had been forgotten about. She was grateful that he was still alive and he was grateful to still have her by his side.

Burt was indifferent to the loss of his pickup truck, focusing more on the loss of his brother, Jake. That day, Burt swore revenge. For Fleming. For Coach. For his brother.

As the three of them rode in silence, Brad’s mind replayed Coach’s theory about Planet X. He wondered how many other parallel worlds and dimensions existed outside of their own. He wondered what other horrors rested on the other side.

To be continued in The Desecrators…

PAYPHONE

Genre: Horror

PAYPHONE

By

Daniel Skye

          There’s a payphone on the corner where Essex and Fairview intersect. Mark Watkins passes that same payphone everyday on his mail route. Why is this worth noting? Well, with the evolution of cell phones, tablets, and other mobile devices, these primitive eyesores have been declared obsolete.

          When you do actually see a payphone, it sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb. As did the prehistoric communication fossil mounted to the side of the public library on the corner of Essex and Fairview.

          Mark certainly noticed it on his daily walks as it was the only payphone left standing in Ridgewood, and probably all of Long Island for that matter.

          It was a Friday in December when he turned the corner of the Ridgewood library that the phone astonished Watkins as it began to ring.

          He stood slightly aghast as the rings droned on, refusing to cease. Then he looked to the left and to the right, scoping out the area. Whoever this call was meant for, they clearly weren’t there to accept it. So Mark did what felt natural. He stepped up and took the call for them.

          Standing under the privacy hood, Mark lifted the black receiver to his ear and said, “Hello?”

          He could hear breathing on the other end of the phone, heavy yet oddly distant, as if the caller had him on speaker phone and was standing quite a distance from where the phone was set.

          “Anyone there?” Mark inquired.

          “I’m here,” a voice finally spoke with a harsh whisper. It was a man’s voice, Watkins was sure of that.

          “Who are you trying to reach, sir?”

          “You, Mr. Watkins.”

          Mark took another look around, eyes frantically glancing in every direction. The coast seemed clear, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being monitored.

          “Are you watching me?”

          “I am incapable of watching, Mark Watkins. Just as I am incapable of enjoying a cold beer or enjoying the company of a beautiful woman. This phone is my only form of interaction.”

          “Who are you?”

          “Barney Stahl.” The name jarred Watkins. His head wobbled back and forth in disbelief and he cringed as it felt as though his inside were being stirred around with a metal whisk.

          “Stop playing games,” Mark said, eyes darting around again, trying to nab the culprit. “Barney Stahl is dead. He died right here on this street corner. It happened one year ago.”

          “You’re correct,” the voice said. “Now please don’t hang up, because I’m about to tell you something very important.”

          “Oh, yeah?” Mark sneered. “What’s that?”

          “I’m about to tell you who killed me.”

          It had been days since Stacy Montgomery had seen the sun or sucked in a breath of fresh air. Her right ankle was raw and purple from the shackle that kept her chained to the cold cellar floor. The chain was ten feet in length, giving Stacy some mobility, but offering no possibility of escape.

          Her captor was not a man who could be reasoned with. He didn’t want money. He didn’t want to be on the six o’clock news. This wasn’t about fame or fortune to him.

          He wanted to see seventeen-year-old Stacy suffer to her last breath.

          Starved and beaten, Stacy had undoubtedly suffered. And the worst was still yet to come.

          She let her nervous mind wander. It helped her from pondering what her captor had in store for her next.

          An image of a five-year-old girl with pigtails skipping rope brought a fleeting smile to her face. It was the younger version of herself. The version of Stacy that hadn’t yet been robbed of her innocence. The version of Stacy that had yet to discover the horrors of the real world. The version that had never experienced fear before; not on a level of this magnitude.

          But that smile was short-lived and it evacuated the moment she heard the cellar door open. Light flowed in from the upstairs fixtures, and an imposing shadow was cast over the rotting wooden staircase.

          “I’m back,” a chilling voice called down to the cellar. “Did you miss me?”

          In the lengthy conversation that ensued, Barney Stahl–or the man claiming to be Barney Stahl–had spilled his guts. He had caught his own brother, Darren, red-handed. Literally.

          Darren’s hands were covered in blood and one hand was still grasping the straight razor when Barney found him holed up in that soundproof cellar. The girl was a drifter, brown hair, eighteen or nineteen. And she wasn’t the first either. She was the fourth.

          He tried talking some sense into Darren. Tried talking to him about getting some help. But Barney could see his brother was beyond help.

          That night, he snuck out and walked to the nearest payphone on the corner of Essex of Fairview. But Darren had trailed him there. And before Barney could place that call to the police, Darren had pierced his lung with the edge of a sharp knife.

          Barney urged Mark to put a stop to Darren before he killed again. “223 Ridgewood Drive,” was the last thing Barney said before the line went dead.

          Watkins was at a crossroads. What could be done? If he went to the police and babbled absurd tales of haunted payphones and vengeful spirits, they’d tell him to beat it or haul him off to the local laughing academy in restraints. And if what Barney said was true and he tried to take on Darren Stahl himself, he could easily wind up dead. It was quite the predicament he had found himself in.

          So he improvised.

          An anonymous call was placed to the Ridgewood police department. Darren Stahl was arrested one hour later. Stacy Montgomery was found locked inside his damp, soundproof cellar. A few bruises aside, the girl was relatively unharmed.

          Physically speaking, that is. Mentally, the scar that Darren Stahl had left on Stacy would not soon fade. But her trauma was soothed when she heard the news that Stahl was looking at five consecutive life sentences.

          She never got to thank her mysterious savior, the one who had placed the call. The cops were able to trace the call, but all it led to was a payphone on the corner of Essex and Fairview.

          A week later, Mark Watkins was on his daily route when he turned the corner of Essex and Fairview and the prehistoric payphone began to chime. With no one else around to answer the call, Mark hesitated briefly before lifting the receiver to his ear.

          “Hello?” he answered.

          “Thank you,” was all Barney said before his voice faded away.

NOSFERATU

Genre: Horror

NOSFERATU

By

Randy Benivegna

          October 31, 2009.

A date that’s become synonymous with teeth-rotting candy, spooky costumes, and wanton destruction. For adults, it’s a time for giving. For the kids, it’s a time for taking. And for the restless teens looking to cause a stir, it’s a time for vandalizing.

Kevin Briggs had mapped out which houses he wanted to visit this year. He made a note not to stop by Mrs. Tremont’s house. She was giving out apples like she did every year, just as the Belton’s always gave out breath mints and mini toothpastes because the father was an orthodontist.

But Mr. Jeffries house was on the list. He had a tradition of handing out full-size Snickers and Butterfingers to all the kids.

Alissa Briggs, a single parent, made it a priority to have off from work every Halloween. It was imperative to her that she be available to take Kevin trick-or-treating. It was always his father’s duty, but after the accident, Mr. Briggs wasn’t available anymore to take little Kevin door-to-door.

So Alissa stepped up and took his place, keeping the ritual alive. Alissa was a strong-willed woman. She did what she wanted to do, even when others advised against it. Like her mother had advised her against taking her husband’s place. But it had been four years since Jay Briggs’ passing. And for four years, Alissa had carried the torch for him.

Or in this case, carried Kevin’s pillowcase full of candy from house to house.

Kevin was caught up in the whole superhero craze the kids his age had been experiencing. He had watched The Dark Knight ten times since its release and he knew what he wanted to be for Halloween this year. No, not Batman. Like so many others, Kevin had found himself enamored with Heath Ledger’s dark portrayal of The Joker.

So Alissa had taken him down to the mall and found him a purple suit and rubber mask. But the mask wasn’t to his satisfaction, so Alissa improvised. She purchased some black and white oil paints, and on the big day, painted Kevin’s face white as he sat in front of the mirror. For the eyes, she drew dark circles with her eyeliner and filled them in with black paint. For the scars, she used red lip gloss to mark his cheeks. It didn’t look as professional as Heath Ledger’s, but it did the job and Kevin was content.

Alissa, sans costume, marched alongside her fearless little Joker, never letting him out of her sight. She was considerate enough to give him his space as he approached each door with other costumed children begging for candy, so as not to embarrass or smother Kevin. But she still kept a watchful eye on her boy.

A night like Halloween brings out all the whackos and troublemakers. Alissa knew this as all the other parents of Dorchester knew. So when nine o’clock came around and the streetlamps were the only thing keeping the darkness at bay, Alissa insisted on returning home.

But Kevin, though his pillowcase was ready to burst it was stuffed with so much candy, still wanted more.

His sweet tooth had turned into a greedy tooth, and he knew the neighborhood well enough to know there were more houses on the list.

“Just a few more houses,” he pleaded. “Please, mom. Please.” She was prepared to put up a fight, but when he started in with the puppy dog eyes, she caved.

“Okay, but just a few more” she smiled and planted a warm peck on his cheek which made him go, “Yuck!”

They trotted hand and hand down the cracked narrow sidewalks that had all seen better days. “Who’s next on the list?” Alissa inquired.

“Mr. Mays. He always gives out bags of Skittles.”

“Oh, honey…Brian Mays moved out six months ago. Someone else is living there now.”

“I bet they still have candy. Can we go, mom? Please, please, please.”

“Okay,” she said patiently, still grasping his tiny hand as they walked towards the old Mays house.

She stood several feet from the grey cement porch as Kevin knocked gently and held out his bag of candy.

“Trick or treat!” he exclaimed as the door scraped open. The new homeowner stood empty-handed in the doorway. It was impossible to verify his age. He had the wrinkles of an octogenarian, but the thick black hair and vitality of a man under fifty.

He stood there statuesque with the posture of a soldier. His back straight, legs pressed firmly together like he was getting ready to salute his general. He was a broad shouldered man with chalky skin, a stout neck, and thin, pointy ears that arched back. A black cape with crimson red lining was draped around his neck and extended to the floor. Plastic fangs dripped with what Kevin assumed was corn syrup and red dye. At least that’s what he had hoped.

“Who are you supposed to be?” the man asked.

“I’m The Joker,” Kevin replied. “I’m Batman’s greatest foe.”

“The Joker, huh?” the old man growled. His posture shifted as he leaned forward so that Kevin could feel his cool breath on his face. Kevin was alarmed to notice his plastic fangs didn’t resemble plastic molding up close. “Joke’s on you, kiddo. I’m fresh out of candy.”

Kevin gulped and lowered his bag. “That’s okay,” he assured the man. “No big deal." Then he added, "Nice Dracula costume, by the way.” But his voice was trembling as he said it.

“Who said it was a costume, kiddo?”

“Alright you’ve scared him enough,” Alissa said as she ascended the cement porch. “You’ve had your fun. Now back off, creep.”

The caped man snatched the nape of Alissa’s neck and he drew her closer, his teeth sinking into her throat.

Lifeless, her body sank to the porch and the caped man wiped away the red from his lips. “I love this time of year,” he said smoothly. “Now get over here, kiddo. Let’s see if The Joker is a match for Dracula.”

Contracted (Film Review)

“CONTRACTED”

A Film Review

By
Daniel Skye (Randy Benivegna)

I don’t write many film reviews, but after viewing Contracted on Netflix Instant, I feel compelled to give my two cents.

What started off slow and awkward in the first few minutes, changed rapidly as the film progressed. Samantha (Najarra Townsend) has a “one-night stand” (that’s how they phrased it in the brief film synopsis) with some mysterious creep who goes by the nickname BJ (Simon Barrett).

BJ just so happens to be the weirdo we see at the beginning of the film, committing what can aptly be described as an act of necrophilia. It should be noted that the corpse was sporting a toe-tag with a biohazard symbol. Whether or not BJ was aware of this fact is never made clear to the audience.

What is made clear to the audience is that BJ now carries whatever this unknown corpse was inflicted with. And after drugging and taking advantage of sexually confused Samantha, passes the infection along to her.

What unfolds over the course of the next three days is beyond horrific, and would send any rational person scrambling to the ER. Sam loses chunks of hair, her fingernails fall out, her body begins to rot from the inside and out, her eyes fill up with blood and turn red as crimson. If I had to categorize this film, it would fall under the sub-genre of body horror. Think David Cronenberg’s films, except this one packs a much weaker punch.

Her oblivious mother (played by Caroline Williams, who many horror nerds will remember from Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2) suspects drugs are the cause in her daughters change in attitude and physical appearance. Her doctor is baffled by the cause and instead of suggesting she seek further help, insists on waiting for tests results. And this is the main problem with the film. Too many characters that are blind to what’s happening.

Her girlfriend Alice (Alice Macdonald) comes off as cold, shallow, and heartless, and is impossible to like or sympathize with from the start. You see, the night she spent with BJ was the first time she’s been with a man in over eight months. After that, she switched sides so to speak and started dating Alice. When Alice learns of Sam’s infidelity, she casts her out without batting an eye. And like many other characters in the film, Alice shows little to no concern for Sam’s deteriorating health.

Living with her mother, Sam tries to get back on her feet by waitressing. When she tells her boss she’s sick and can’t come in, he says she has to because no one else is available to cover her shift. When she arrives and he sees her bloodshot eyes, he questions it. She excuses it as pinkeye and instead of sending her home, he insists on making her work until someone else shows up to cover the shift.

“Oh, you have pinkeye? Please continue serving food to my customers. I’m sure this won’t be bad for business.” Does anyone in this movie have a brain? What showed promise at certain moments failed to deliver big-time in regards to the characters and the decisions that they make. The things these people say and do will leave you baffled.

As will the climax of the film. I won’t give too much away, but the film obviously ends with more questions than answers. And I would’ve been satisfied with that if the film had reached its full potential. Sadly, the characters were flat and clueless, the dialogue was weak, and what could’ve been a great addition to the horror genre simply fell a bit short.

On the cooler side of the pillow, the special makeup effects were on the money here. I guess that’s what most of the budget went into. It certainly didn’t go into hiring a screenwriter to polish up the script.

And Eric England showed promise as a director. As a writer, not so much. But his camera work was solid and Sam’s “transformation” was genuinely disturbing at times, and a few scenes did have me cringing.

On a scale of one to ten, I give Contracted a five.