Scary Holiday Tales to Make You Scream (40 page)

He struggled to raise his head, then gave up, allowing it to tilt back. Ouch! The headboard felt like a rock. His forehead was throbbing, too. Damn again! He knew he'd forgotten to pack the headache tablets. He'd gotten as far as removing them from the family bathroom cabinet, and left them on the windowsill by the shaving mirror. At this precise moment a thousand or so miles away, his mother was putting them back in the cabinet, shaking her salt-and-pepper head at the carelessness of Youth.

Chris tried to figure out what time it was. But it was so dark. He groped to where his watch should be. It was gone. Of course! What a clot he was! His mates must have removed it last night. It was no use, he had to find out what time it was. Breakfast finished at ten in the hotel and he and his mates intended sneaking out some rolls for lunch. If he didn't get a move on, he'd miss out on both meals, and the pick of the birds! That tasty little group they'd picked up with on the plane would be lounging around somewhere in their bikinis, or even topless! Ow! He tried to move his head again. Surely this was more than a hangover. He'd experienced enough of them to know how they felt, for Chrissakes. This time his head seemed to hurt in a dozen different places. It was just his luck to have picked up some fast-acting foreign bug.

He touched his forehead, tentatively dabbing at it with his right forefinger. Was it sweat? Or could it be…No, it couldn't possibly be blood. If only he could summon up enough strength to reach the window. He just had to see something. Panic struck him. Maybe that was it. He'd gone blind. Oh, God. He remembered reading about that happening to someone once. It sounded horrible. This guy had woken up at dawn, thinking it was midnight. He'd struggled to pull back the curtains. Nothing. He couldn't see a damn thing. He'd gone blind overnight. Cancer. Chris thought the guy had cancer. But he was only nineteen. Surely to God nothing like that could happen to him. Not yet.

He groaned. There was a muffled response. He groaned again. The other groaner answered more weakly this time. It must be either Geoff or Lindsay. Maybe they were in the same state. What bloody fools they'd been. A fortnight's holiday in the sun, and they'd spent a great deal the first night on drinking each other under the foreign table of a local bar.

It was coming back to Chris now in bits. Shreds of last night's happenings fluttered through his mind. The three of them had tracked down this water hole in one of the seedier parts of town. He couldn't even remember what the place was called. It was full of foreigners like themselves, some blonder, many swarthier. The bar was hot, sweaty, reeked of unwashed bodies. Through the smoke there had been a woman belly-dancing. Yes! He remembered her most clearly. She had black hair, almond eyes and an emerald pressed into her navel. The three of them had stared hard at it, willing it to pop out of that smooth, sensually swaying, taut, tanned, nubile stomach.

Then those fat guys came. For some reason they hadn't liked Lindsay. Maybe he had been staring just a little too hard at the emerald. They picked on him. The guy was just trying to relax with a quiet drink, harmlessly watching a beautiful dancer, and the bastards picked on him. It all came back to Chris now, like in a bad dream. That's what they say, don't they? His head fell back against the headboard. "Ow!" he screamed. It was a rock. It had to be.

The door was thrown open. Through the piercing light he attempted to adjust his vision. Thank God he wasn't blind. A moment's still view revealed the full drama: Geoff was sitting, or rather propped up about six feet in front of him. He looked thirty years older, unshaved, haggard, a rancid smell wafted over from him as he shifted his legs. Chris gagged, then looked up into the eyes of the stocky, swarthy stranger. But then this man was no stranger to Chris. Only the surroundings were unrecognizable to him. Unwittingly he had swapped a fortnight in an over-hyped one star, cramped, camp-bed style hotel room for a filthy, claustrophobic potting shed in the middle of God-knows-where for God-only-knew how long.

He felt an explosion coming from his bowels. Foreign water, or was something scaring the crap out of him? Not that there could be much waste matter to come out. Judging by the hollowness left in his guts now, and the length of the stubble on Geoff's face, they could have been in this Hell-hole for over forty-eight hours.

"Lindsay!" Chris tried to scream at his kidnapper, but a dry crackle like a poorly-tuned radio leaked out. "Lindsay!" he tried to scream again. Again it was only a whimper.

"Is this him?" sneered the sinister stranger.

He held out the battered, severed head, and laughed demonically until Chris passed out…

Sarah Crabtree

Sarah Crabtree is a freelance writer and reviewer, resident in the UK. Her stories, poems and articles have been published in a wide variety of magazines, print and online, including Terror Tales and Shadow Writers. A selection of her work can be viewed on
www.sarahcrabtree.net

By Marc Sanchez

"Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

-Albert Einstein

The police cruiser rolled into the Ferry Point Park parking lot and pulled up alongside three prepubescent boys. Hats on backwards, flannels wrapped around waists, skateboards tucked in armpits.

The window slid silently down.

"You boys know this place closes at sunset. What the hell you still doin' here?"

"We're on our way home," the tall one lied, faking a smile.

Officer Pete nodded. The window slithered up.

Pete Richards swung around the lot and caught a view of the couple jogging past Turk.

Fucking Turk.

"Heeeeeere...duck duck ducky! Heeeeere...duck, duck ducky! Goose, goose goosey! Heeeeere...goose, goose goosey!"

...watch it Louie! Watch your back!...the place is crawling, Louie! Watch your back!

"Heeeeere...duck duck ducky! Heeeere....duck duck ducky!"

Turk scattered his specially mixed bird feed out onto the bank of the Ferry Point Park pond. "Heeeeere! Duck, duck ducky!"

Ducks swam over to him. Geese honked from across the pond. Mallards and Wood Ducks waddled up onto the muddy, dung-covered shore snapping up the tidbits of corn, oats, and dry stuffing mix. Three sprinkles later the geese arrived. Big, intimidating waterfowl that trudged through the flock and came bowing and hissing up to Turk; necks drooped, beaks skyward, like bullies after lunch money.

"Hey there, gooses!" he said. "Chow time, babies!"

He scattered more feed. The geese honked. The ducks quacked. The seagulls descended, piping and peeping and squawking and stealing.

Oh shit, Frankie! In the trees! Fuck me! Watch it, Frankie! Fucking gooks! Everywhere! Oh shit! I can't do it, Frankie! I can't do it! "Oh, you party poopers!" Turk barked at the gulls, pushing the thoughts away. He pulled a paper bag from the back pack at his feet and extracted a bag of popcorn, extra buttery. "I'm ready for you today!" And he dumped the popcorn into several piles. The gulls immediately left.

Scatter you sons a bitches! Watch it, Louie! Watch it! I got them fuckers! Scatter! Hah Hah! Happy fucking Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah... "Hah!" Turk threw his head back and howled up at the clear September sky. "Watch your back, Louie! Shit! They got gooks in them holes, Louie! Happy Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..."

Duck tails wiggled. The geese nibbled. The gulls picked at their parasites and eyed Turk wearily from a distance.

A young couple in matching jogging suits cantered by. "Hey, Turk!" They smiled and kept running down the concrete path.

"Hey!" Turk shouted, his eyes never leaving the gulls. "Happy Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah."

The jogging coupled glanced at each other, smirking. Good ol' shell-shocked, harmless, Turk, their expressions said.

The gulls sat on the other side of the pond, eyes never leaving Turk.

Midnight.

The rain-soaked and shining streets of the coastal town of Timber Bay reflected the tri-lobed streetlights that burned from dusk til dawn. The streets were usually empty at this hour.

Empty, except for Turk.

At midnight, most folks in this town are in their trailers sleeping, or watching Letterman. They have to watch Letterman. You only get one channel in Timber Bay. Even the public station doesn't come in out here.

Big Bird? Barney? Masterpiece Theatre? Never heard of 'em.

Jerry Springer? The VCR's roll daily.

If they're not sleeping, staring at a plastic and glass box, or creating more misery for themselves in the form of unwanted children, they're at one of the four establishments open and serving liquor until 2:00 A.M. Lynch's Tavern, where the seagoing type hang out, is down at the docks. The other three establishments run alongside each other at the south end of town. There's The Office, which is where all the legal poker machines in Timber Bay extract quarters from the town's compulsive gamblers, and you can get a Long Island Iced Tea and a dried squid for five bucks; One-Eyed Willie's, where most of the tough guys hang out, listening to country music on the juke, shooting pool, and occasionally shooting each other; and then there's The Peeping Turtle, a nice looking joint, with black light velvet tapestries of Vargas girls on the wall, a blackjack table that's honest, dollar beers, and the only place in Timber Bay where exotic dancers are legal.

It's also the town brothel. But you wouldn't know that unless you were very local, or Officer Pete.

Pete swung into the alley behind The Peeping Turtle. Van Stones was waiting for him.

The window buzzed down, Van leaned in. "Evenin', Pete."

"Evenin', Van."

"How's Trixie?"

"Same ol' bitch. How's business?"

"Can't complain." Stones pulled an envelope from his back pocket after glancing up and down the alley. He handed it to Pete. It disappeared into the darkness of the patrol car.

The window slid up.

Stones shot a glance over his shoulder at the back door of The Peeping Turtle. Tanya jiggled out, and got in the passenger seat.

Pete drove.

Fuckin' Stones, he thought. Fuckin' idiot. "Hello, sweetheart," he said, unzipping his pants and grabbing the back of Tanya's head.

Turk walked the streets. Chain-smoking Marlboros.

...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...

"Happy fucking Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..." He shouted at the top of his voice. His words echoed off of dark storefronts and rain-drop-dripping eaves.

Watch it, Frankie! They're in the trees! Watch the fuck out!

Turk flicked his butt into the gutter outside One-Eyed Willie's and lit another. Pondering.

Nope, not tonight. Gonna go to The Peeping Turtle tonight. Yep.

"Happy Lemur Day!" Turk called out into the foggy night. "Hah...hah...hah..."

He walked and smoked.

...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...

Turk walked up to the bar at The Peeping Turtle. Music pounded while some blonde that Turk never looked at spun around a pole. Joe the bald bartender leaned in with a grin. "Heya, Turk? Howzit hangin'?"

Turk slapped a five-dollar bill on the bar with a smile. He stared at the wood grain in the bar top. "The usual Joe!"

Joe returned with a shot of bourbon and two twenty-five. Turk slid the quarter toward Joe and pocketed the bills. Always looking at the grain. "Keep the change, Joe!"

Joe grinned. "Thanks, Turk. One step closer to that Rolls I've had my eye on."

"Hah!" Turk tilted his head back and downed the shot. Then he motioned for Joe to come closer.

Joe leaned in again.

Turk spoke very slowly, this time his eyes were locked on Joe's. His phrases came out in short bursts. "There's a Hoot owl...outside my house...in the Myrtle...hoots real loud...sometimes," Turk said. He gave Joe a somber look and a nod.

Joe nodded back.

"Right now," Turk continued, "you have formed...a mental image...of that owl." He studied Joe's face.

Joe nodded.

"But he ain't nothin'...like you imagine." Turk turned and headed for the door. Grabbing the brass handle, he shouted: "Happy fucking Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..."

Joe smiled. "You are one in a million, Turk, old boy."

Tanya got out of the police cruiser just as Turk was rounding the corner into the alley.

"Hey Turk!" she shouted. Everyone knew Turk. Sort of. Knew who he was, what he had done. He didn't answer her. She never expected him to, nobody did. Turk only spoke to bartenders, doctors, and animals.

Turk kept walking and smoking.

...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...pick 'em up and put 'em down...puff puff...oh shit! These fucks are everywhere, Louie! Give me a gun! Give me a fucking gun!

"Happy Lemur Day! Hah...hah...hah..."

Pete watched Turk pace past his cruiser. Seemingly oblivious.

He knows, thought Officer Pete. He knows.

Trailer Park City is one nickname given Timber Bay by the truckers that pass through. Very few residents actually live in a real house.

Turk was one of those that did.

It was on old, unkempt Victorian in the middle of Acacia Street. A moat of wild blackberry vines surrounded the house, and nobody could ever quite remember what color the house used to be. The paint had long peeled and chipped and leaked its lead into the groundwater. Tall Myrtle trees surrounded the blackberries, emitting their eucalyptus-like vapors and tapping on the windows of the upper floors of Turk's old house; which was Turk's father's old house, and his father's old house before that.

5:00 A.M.

Turk stepped out off the warped back porch. There was a small clearing amidst the blackberries where Turk had cultivated a little pond of his own. A self-contained ecosystem. Here he raised baby ducklings, goslings, and any young birds suddenly orphaned; whether by storm or by cat or by the cruelty of strangers with shotguns.

We're safe here, Louie. They don't know about this place. Don't worry, we'll get Frankie...