Nightmare Fuel: The Ultimate Collection of Short Horror Tales (9 page)

“Not much farther,” Gertrude whispered, voice shaky.

The reality of the situation sunk deeper into Heisel as they advanced to the unknown.  Something occurred to him. What if it was a man dressed up? A murderer? An escaped convict? Criminally insane individual? The choices were mounting up, piling on his already high anxiety, not helping at all. So he tried his best to shrug of his irrational concerns. Until they were soon stood just underneath it and his attention was fully focused on that, and nothing else.

“What now?” Heisel impatiently asked.

Gertrude simply shrugged in response.

“This was your idea Gertrude!” he yelled, and instantly regretted that outburst as it echoed through the field.

“Oh!” she flung a finger into the air. But not for long, and shoved it into her jacket pocket.

Heisel stood cold and on edge, while she fumbled, eventually bringing out a small torch.

“You only just realised you had that now?” Heisel had to admit he was irritated.

“Well yes, I always carry one. The amount of times I have to come out here to tell you dinner's ready is ridiculous, and it's usually night time. So I bought a cheap one to always have on me,” she clicked the small metal piece and the bulb broke yellow into the atmosphere.

Unfortunately, the ray immediately hit upwards, projecting light onto the scarer.

“Oh dear God, I was right...” one of Heisel's earlier anxieties was actually reality.

“Oh no....”

Their mouths hung agape as they were just comprehending what it was they were gawking at. The bloody body of a man. Hay stuck to his flesh with redness, hat resting atop an almost fully skinned head. Any less skin and the identity of the man would be impossible to detect. Every piece of fabric and cloth was saturated in crimson. It still dripped onto the ground.

“That's....he is the.....” Gertrude muttered.

Then the recognition also smacked Heisel in the head. That wasn't just any corpse, it was that of a police officer. One of the cops that had been investigating the incident only hours earlier. It was a shock they could even identify the bloodshed. One of his eyeballs had been removed, leaving a gaping cavity in the gory skull.

“No no no..... what did this?” Gertrude spoke through frightened tears.

At that very second something rustled nearby. The couple instantly seized all respiring and talking, honing their focus in on the unknown noise. It was getting louder. Closer.

“What's that?” Heisel asked, not sure he even wanted an answer.

Until it sprang through the murk. Unstoppable, unnatural and terrifying. It took only a few seconds for the thing to annihilate them. But not before Gertrude could release an almighty shriek.

***

Greta had been snivelling into a tear-stained pillow when a loud scream broke her wailing. The young girl instantly jerked up in bed. Face wet, and throat sore from crying. She hopped from the mattress and paced to the bedroom door.

“Mum? Dad?” she shouted through the door.

The only noise was silence, the dissolution of sound. It slithered into the air, bringing with it an unnerving feeling that crawled on Greta's spine. Cautiously, she inched open the door and peered into the hallway. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Save for the odd quiet which was interrupted by Greta's door creaking. Greta strolled to the stairs, head whipping from left to right, and leant over the bannister.

“Mum? You down there?”

No reply. Which was strange. Normally she would be scrubbing dishes or doing a load of laundry. And it wasn't uncommon for Getrude to be humming an old tune whilst doing so. But Greta knew that this Sunday had been far from normal. The slaughter of a young child could cause crazy, irrational behaviour. Most likely did. Greta tiptoed down the steps, jittery and uncomfortable. There was the slight sound of wind whistling outside. At second thought Greta considered the possibility that the shriek she'd heard was actually just that of the weather. That all this was silly and irrational fretting. But that still did not explain the absence of her parents. It was normal for Heisel to sometimes sit on the porch and drink a coffee, enjoying blissful solitude and keeping an eye on the field. Or go keep his hands busy and work in the barn. But in this weather, it was highly doubtful he would venture outside for any reason. At this temperature it wasn't out of character for him to slouch in front of the TV and watch the news, cradling a mug of piping hot coffee or an ice cold beer; while Gertrude teetered around performing housework. But as far as the eye could see, neither were here. Greta approached the bottom of the stairs. No TV blaring, the ruckus the washer usually made didn't vibrate. Greta sensed something was very wrong.  She paced through the house, alert for anything suspicious. But other than the truancy of Heisel and Gertrude, nothing was out of the ordinary. That was, until she came to the kitchen. In specific, the back door. No shoes on the matt, no coats on the hanger. They had ventured outside.

Greta prayed she was wrong, but knew that was the only possibility. They had travelled outside, no doubt unable to break from thoughts of the day's tragedy.
Maybe mother had gone to help dad in the barn? Or clear up after the investigation left the crops in ruin?
Greta wasn't sure they were allowed to move or disturb anything. But the police had been and photographers had taken snaps of the nightmare, so maybe they could. As she stood in the middle of the kitchen, Greta noticed more strangeness. Dishes were left in the sink. This suggested they left in a hurry. In her whole life Gertrude had never left anything that needed to be washed. She would only start a task that could be finished there and then. This was even more unnerving than their unknown location. Greta wandered to the sink, a scent of apple becoming prominent, which she assumed was dish soap. Dishes peeked from soapy water as Greta continued to grow more anxious. Her glare soon transpired from the bubbly water containing soiled pottery, to the window. In the field there was three scarecrows. Into the distance, beyond the scene of death, was three wooden crosses side by side. Greta couldn't make any sense of it. Curious, she made her way to the back door and peered through the window. The dismal light made it hard to see anything nearby, let alone a mile into the crops. The light in the kitchen also made it difficult to see beyond her reflection. Greta noticed how red her face was, and how messy hair sat atop her head like a scruffy cat. The moisture from tears still coated her puffy cheeks. That was when the face of a scarecrow came into sight, looking straight into Greta's eyes. Greta lost her breath at the straw abomination. A sun hat, and dark, malicious eyes were embedded in and around the hay. But panic really caused a racing heart when she realised that the scarecrow wasn't being viewed on the porch, but as part of the reflection. It was stood directly behind her.

Not thinking, acting rash and impulsive, preserving safety, Greta ran. She threw the door open, launching outside without a second thought. Barefoot and in a silk nightgown, pain was soon her best friend. Lumpy, hard dirt stabbed the soles of her feet with every step the second she left the smooth wood of the porch. But at the same time the wind came like a freight train. It whipped the nightgown up and sent freezing slashes of cold air onto her little legs. Greta couldn't decide which was worse. Then with the addition of some supernatural monster that resembled a scarecrow chasing her, it was a miracle she was still conscious. But brave and determined, Greta ran. Crops thrashing her face, sharp objects spiking her feet, and the temperature dropping fast the further she moved into the field. Soon light from the house no longer acted as a mentor in the journey. Darkness came like an unsuspecting killer. The creature continued running with alarming speed, panting like a dog. Greta could hear this, and thus continued on, light or no light, pain or no pain. The tractor framed in police tape came into focus. The little light that was out there bounced off the metal carcass, dripping in blood. But Greta noticed the scarecrow had in fact moved. And there was now three of them! From the safety and warmth of the house, it was just speculation. Now up front and personal, it was a confirmed belief. The demon still unrelenting made Greta push past the scene of a young boy's untimely, premature and questionable demise, and further into the dangerous abyss.

Greta's chest burned as her legs began to ache. She wasn't sure how much longer she could go, energy was dwindling rapidly. Then something distracted her. A smell. A fungal, bloody odour becoming more intense with every second. As the three wooden posts became more clear, so did the stench. They worked hand in hand. Until intelligence hit. Greta concluded that whatever hung from the posts must be causing the smell. Under normal circumstances Greta would flee the reeking vileness. But being pursed by an evil entity shook any rationality and common sense that still remained. Until there was nothing left but self-preservation and gut instinct. As Greta continued to run she spun out of control and went flying through the crops and out into an open space in the middle of the field. The foul smell was like a blow to Greta's stomach as she landed in slop. A sludgy, slimy pool mixed with dirt. Panting and panicking she quickly scurried and was about to continue fleeing when she looked up. The middle post was bare, an empty cross of moist wood. But at the base was the corpse of a man. Greta uncontrollably screamed into the night. Blood soiled this man, who wore a part of a police uniform. It was a sight that would haunt the young girl for eternity. Greta's body at a loss of how to react, fell backwards. Yet again the goo made contact with her nightgown, drenching it. That was all she could think about until she noticed that the other two posts weren't empty. Bodies were hammered to them. Naked bodies missing arms and legs. Bloody torsos with little heads. The faces distorted in terror. Guts and intestines swung from the massacred corpses, oozing blood, adding to the ever-expanding puddle of fluid. But regardless of their condition, Greta instantly knew the faces. The two cruelly slaughtered bodies belonged to Heisel and Gertrude. Greta shrieked, sopping whilst doing so. Tears dampened her face as she wailed into trembling hands. She couldn't bare to look at the bodies for a second longer. That was a sight that would no doubt haunt Greta for as long as she lived. But then Greta remembered she was out here for a reason. There was a strange, deadly predator in pursuit, not far away. Just then crunching could be heard behind, no doubt the demon. But surprisingly she could care less. A world without parents was an existence she didn't favour, a life that would not be worth living. Organs still fell from the torsos as she grieved their merciless passing, mourning the loss of two innocent human beings who she adored very much. But anger was also present. A deep fury at this monster who had just come along and murdered, very insanely, a bunch of people who had done nothing wrong. This emotion sustained her even when sharp claws slashed. Even when teeth chomped down, skin was peeled, bones were broken, and a will to live or fight was destroyed.

Unlike Greta's parents, her own mutilated carcass wore the expression of misery. Not fear. Not horror. But a deep depression and sorrow. An eternal ache that was embedded into her soul. These were the expressions also worn by the police and paramedics the following day as they came to the scene of another unimaginable crime. The death of a law enforcer, two parents and their child. This dominated the news for weeks, along with another rash of grizzly deaths that eventually came to an end. Never able to determine what was doing it. But little did anyone know, that the deaths hadn't stopped, but simply relocated. The scarecrow was working its way through America, slowly but surely killing the populace, until extinction of the human race was inevitable. And scarecrows would reign on earth.

Vengeance

Crickets chirped into the night as Neve strolled down the street headed for the Butterfield's house. A typical Saturday night babysitting the adorable twins. Most teenage girls only performed such tasks as a means of getting money, but Neve genuinely loved the children. Barely three and indescribably cute. The breeze was faint on the warm summer night, with the stars glimmering above. Warm glows from houses and muffled conversations echoed in the street, along with the blurry television screens shining through blinds. The house was only five minutes away, resting atop the hill of homes. The haze of shadows rushing around to get ready were visible through the windows.

Neve took a moment to enjoy her new clothes that she had bought earlier that day at the mall. Tiffany and Sadie had accompanied Neve on a cheeky trip for some retail therapy. Mostly window browsing, unless a killer sale or irresistible deal was on, then caution was thrown to the wind and their allowances vanished. Not that Neve had to worry about that, she had regular babysitting work. The silky t-shirt rubbed against her skin, as a pair of soft joggers stroked at her legs. Mint milkshake still lingered on Neve's tongue from the mall's quaint diner where they had each slurped up sweet dairy goodness. Fond memories of gossip and scandal made a smile stretch out her face as Neve approached a bundle of children playing in their front lawn. Which seemed a little dangerous as they looked no older than seven. The neighbourhood was not in question, but common sense told most parents vigilance was key to keeping your children safe from perverts and murderers these days. It was then that the parents could be seen sat on the porch swinging on a large chair. They each held a tumbler of green liquid, the tip of each glass rimmed with sugar. Neve presumed it was an alcoholic drink, after all it was Saturday. She knew there were many adults, including her parents that enjoyed alcohol on a weekend after a hard working week. The children ran around playing tag, each rolling and jumping to avoid being touched and having the daunting task of chasing being passed onto them like a plague. Girls squeaked while the boys chuckled, tumbling in the grass. The parents wore huge grins, staring at their children with adoring, and slightly glazed over eyes. Neve now immediately took back her judgement on the parenting skills of the clearly loving, caring couple. She gave them a wave as they sipped their drinks. Each returned the sentiment with a raised tilt of their glasses.

After passing neighbours, dogs and picturesque homes Neve was now approaching the driveway to the Butterfield's. Toys were strewn on the lawn and the garage was wide open showing a mess of garden furniture and equipment. She stepped up onto the wooden porch and knocked at the door. Neve quickly used the reflection to fuss at her blonde hair and rearrange her jacket before someone answered. Which was when Mrs Butterfield came and opened the door wearing a stunning black dress and cloaked in shimmering jewellery. A diamond necklace, earrings, rings, and a shiny bracelet.

“Hey Neve come in,” she invited with affection whilst wiping off her dress.

“Hi,” Neve smiled and removed her rucksack and sneakers at the front door, adding to the already existent pile of shoes and bags.

“The kids are just in the living room playing, if you could keep an eye on them while we finish getting ready that would be great,” Mrs Butterfield stroked Neve's shoulder, leading her into the large living room.

More toys were scattered on every surface and object in there. A mahogany coffee table with colouring books, leather sofas seating several figurines, a bean bag chair holding crayons, and shelves crammed with pop-up storybooks. To the end of the room was their official play area where boxes upon boxes were crammed with heaps of toys. The translucent boxes were awash of colour, patterns and shapes from the toys being held inside. The twins giggled as they each held figurines and acted out a fight scene with them. An almighty superhero battle was on. Just beyond their den was an archway leading into the kitchen, where a delicious smell was coming from. Pies! They always cooked plenty of food for Neve when she babysat, wanting to put some 'meat on her bones', as well as compensating generously for her time. Which only added to the appeal of this 'job', even if it meant no clubbing or slumber parties.

***

Within fifteen minutes the parents had gone and left Neve to care for the twins. Which didn't take much effort as they were happy as could be playing in their den. Neve was just needed for supervision should there be an accident. And of course they were bound to get hungry and had to be given a strict bedtime otherwise they would play into the early hours.

Neve sat on the expensive leather couch browsing the net, and every so often glancing over at her charges. The TV played some annoyingly happy children's show about a bear who could fly. Then a chat bar opened on Neve's social networking page. It was from an unnamed individual that struck her as off. Only friends could communicate due to the privacy settings. So how had someone who wasn't in Neve's friend's list managed to start a conversation? Curious, she read the message. 'Guess who'. Then it hit her who it was, a guy named Steve who she had been flirting with for a few days. His intentions were questionable, which is why she was playing hard to get. Neve wanted to see if he really liked her or just wanted to get laid. She was no sucker, and would not be used and abused like a common whore. Not to mention the fact that after a steamy sleepover with a girl from school, she was fairly certain she was a lesbian. But Neve knew better, even in a time where being gay was no big deal, her parents were crazy religious and saw homosexuals as sinners. They wouldn't hesitate throwing her out on her ass. So until she moved out, Neve would have to play straight, and Steve was a nice enough guy, and pretty hot. For a guy anyway. 'Steve?' she grinned. Another message bounced back, reading, 'Webcam me and see'.

Neve turned the screen so the twins had no way of seeing it. She knew how hormonal teen males could be, flashing their private parts as if it was public property. Which only made her pity guys who felt they needed to expose themselves to gain gratification, especially when that person was pretty much a stranger. The webcam first brought a small square on the screen, showing herself. Then the leather sofa, cream walls and portraits in the back. Steve's blue bedroom then came into shot, but the room was dark. The only thing visible was the curtains behind an oddly still Steve. Even stranger, there was no smile, his face was frozen. Eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Steve?” she asked, becoming nervous.

He didn't so much as flinch. Not a blink or grin or inhalation of breath.

“Steve, come on, stop being stupid, I am not in the mood!”

Sometimes Steve did like to play the occasional prank from what she'd heard. In fact, that was what he was known for. With the exception of being a surprisingly great artist and constantly being praised for his lifelike sketches and paintings.

“Steve I can't be on long I am babysitting, I need to keep an eye on the twins,” she scowled.

But still, nothing she said provoked a sliver of emotion. No reaction whatsoever. She had half a mind to shout out, 'Oh by the way I am into girls.' But that news would spread around school like wildfire, which she didn't need.

“Okay, I'm going, I'll speak to you Monday,” Neve went to disconnect the call when the face moved.
Finally!
But it became apparent that the head was being lowered. A hand holding Steve's hair came into shot. Neve was disconcerted at this. Limbs seamed to be floating around eerily. Until clarity shed a light on the situation when another man's face appeared above Steve's. But this belonged to a man considerably older, grey tufts of hair atop an almost bald head. Deep wrinkles creased the skin and uneven stubble dotted the lower face and neck. Neve stopped breathing at that instance, overtaken by fear at this unknown man in Steve's bedroom. It wasn't his dad, and both grandfathers had passed, that was someone she had never seen before. It then dawned on Neve that this stranger was smiling at the camera. A set of yellow, crooked teeth were being displayed, with the odd black tooth almost invisible in the darkness. Then the mystery man spoke.

“Not if I see you first my dear,” he winked, then the camera shut off.

Neve sat for a collection of seconds, unsure what to do next. She was horrified. For a moment she considered the possibility that the encounter hadn't just happened and it had been imagined. But Neve was too smart for that. The question remained: does she call the police? Call Steve's house to confirm if it was a prank or deadly real. Dead being the operative word as Steve had looked too still to be of the living, which tugged on her heart strings. The twin's giggling brought her away from the laptop and the devastating webcam session. She put it aside on the sofa and looked over at the kids, still playing gleefully, happy as can be, blissfully unaware. She envied them. Neve sat drowning in a pool of worry and dread. But choosing to be safe rather than sorry she paced to the end of the living room and grabbed the phone. A mahogany table was nestled into the corner holding the phone, aside the bay window which exposed the front lawn and the mess of toys tangled on the turf. The weather had started to change with the drizzle of rain dampening the grass. Neve dialled in the number of Steve's house phone and let it ring. She twiddled her thumbs as the ring went on and on. Either way someone should pick up. She figured. But hoped it was Steve confessing a very realistic and startling prank, and not a homicidal mad man. She would be justifiably furious at him, but that would be highly desirable to him being dead. Then the ringing stopped and a voice appeared on the other end.

“Hello?”
Oh thank God!

Neve wasn't sure why, but the voice didn't sound familiar. The tone was relaxed and calm, but she didn't recognise it.
Was it Steve's father?
Just as she was about to ask about Steve's whereabouts the man cut her off.

“Ahh, this is Neve I see? The pretty young girl from the camera?”

Neve almost collapsed, legs turning into jelly.

“Not getting shy are you?” he teased.

Each word he uttered Neve pictured the vile decrepit man, which made the conversation that more frightening.

“Is this a joke?” Neve burst out, without even thinking, impulsively asking what she wanted answering.

A slight chuckle echoed down the line. “A joke? Well Steve's life was a joke if that's what you mean?” The laughing continued.

Then it hit her like a freight train. The man used the past tense word 'was'. His life 'was' a joke. Her worst fears had been realised and were happening. Steve was dead.

“Come on, you were doing so well. Any more questions? Like do I know the house where you're babysitting?” he sniggered.

Now Neve was beyond terrified. The wind rattled the window and the picket fence out front shook slightly, with the addition of wind adding to the rain. Neve noticed this amidst the horrifying chat.

“It's the Butterfield's right?” he asked.

Oh my god! How the hell does he know that?
Not wasting any time she slammed the phone down and moved away from the window, feeling vulnerable. Neve dimmed the lights and ran to the children, kneeling with them both.

“Okay, I think we need to go....” she spoke aloud, alerting the attention of the twins. Each had been playing, bashing toys against toys, oblivious to the danger they may be faced with. Neve wasn't sure what her next move would be, but she knew one thing. The old man knew she was at that house, so fleeing the building was a must in order to survive.

After wrapping the twins in countless blankets and padded winter outerwear, she fled outside. The rain hit Neve as she stepped onto the lawn holding both children in a double carrier. For some strange reason their combined weight was lighter than she would have expected, or maybe she was getting stronger from intense gym sessions? Either way, she was grateful.  She lugged the kids to the next door neighbour who she knew to be a young couple. Upon the occasional wave Neve thought they were friendly people, and would be the best candidates to help her and the infants, avoid death. Neve rushed up their drive and stepped onto their front porch. There was a morning paper that was still rolled and wrapped in plastic, sitting at the front door.
Were they away?
Neve prayed they were home watching movies and not out drinking or dining. Knock, knock, knock. She rapped on the door firmly. But after a few freezing minutes, it was clear no one was home. No lights were on, no sounds came from the house, and the paper still sat on the porch. She brayed at the door one more time, and nothing. That was when Neve decided to try the other neighbour's further along. Just as the young girl turned she saw a hooded man in the street. This individual was stood across the road, seemingly staring at Neve.
Why would anyone be out at this time? Not even dog walkers would come out in this!
Just as she debated the common sense of the stranger, he withdrew something from his pocket. It glimmered as he retrieved it. All that could be seen in the dim street lights was a piece of wood. Long and thin. But as this man continued to pull, something shone light at Neve. An axe head bounced moonlight in the gloom, dripping in crimson. Blood. Just as Neve was weighing up the little choices left, he came striding at her. That was when Neve lost her manners and tried the front door. Fortunately, it was open. She barged in and bolted the door shut behind her, not sure whether to scream or cry. The man was approaching the driveway, swinging the hatchet and humming a chilling tune.