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Horrors2
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More releases, update a few stories at authors' requests

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cruft 2009-07-10 10:57:28 -06:00
parent 395d036f19
commit e2a7b36111
3 changed files with 419 additions and 518 deletions
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20
horrors2.ltx
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@ -113,14 +113,14 @@ and/or blood. Stay strong, pukers.
%\include{stories/KryonikMessiah.The_Ninjas}
\include{stories/IShallRiseAgain.The_School}
\include{stories/Paracetamol_Boy.The_Smile}
%\include{stories/ack_.The_Dock}
\include{stories/ack_.The_Dock}
\include{stories/rinski.The_Mansio}
\include{stories/Syphilicious_.What_Lurks}
%\include{stories/Rummanging.Nebulous_C}
\include{stories/antiloquax.The_Unexpe}
\include{stories/benitocereno.The_Beginn}
%\include{stories/A_Child_s_Letter.Yellow_Eye}
%\include{stories/Decatur_Fist.The_Last_N}
\include{stories/Decatur_Fist.The_Last_N}
%\include{stories/Brolita.Mac}
\include{stories/nmg.The_Horrid}
\include{stories/Ghost_Hat.Invisible_}
@ -131,24 +131,24 @@ and/or blood. Stay strong, pukers.
%\include{stories/TheElectronicOne.In_the_Mir}
\include{stories/WhereTheFishLives.The_Horrid}
\include{stories/on_time_for_once.The_Playgr}
%\include{stories/overnightmike.The_Explod}
\include{stories/overnightmike.The_Explod}
\part{You're no Hakan}
\include{stories/Part_of_Everything.The_Death_}
%\include{stories/Madcosby.Son_Of_Bav}
\include{stories/Madcosby.Son_Of_Bav}
\include{stories/Dr_Scoofles.The_Long_F}
%\include{stories/Peas_and_Rice.The_King}
\include{stories/reasonable_form.The_Six_Si}
%\include{stories/Smeef.The_Old_Ch}
%\include{stories/jidohanbaiki.The_Ocean}
\include{stories/Knuc_If_U_Buck.The_Horrif}
%\include{stories/henpod.The_Last_C}
%\include{stories/Mortonic.The_Very_H}
\include{stories/henpod.The_Last_C}
\include{stories/Mortonic.The_Very_H}
%\include{stories/Oatgan.The_Scream}
\include{stories/Lynxifer.The_Orches}
%\include{stories/Cheesus_Christ.The_Horrid}
%\include{stories/brylcreem.The_Creatu}
%\include{stories/taurapo.The_Child}
\include{stories/Cheesus_Christ.The_Horrid}
\include{stories/brylcreem.The_Creatu}
\include{stories/taurapo.The_Child}
\include{stories/Assless_Chaps.The_Mosqui}
\include{stories/Sirocco.The_Monste}
\include{stories/Cota_Froise.The_Horrid}
@ -182,7 +182,7 @@ and/or blood. Stay strong, pukers.
\include{stories/JohnnyThreeToes.Horrid_Tra}
\include{stories/King_Plum_the_Nth.Flow_My_Te}
\include{stories/Yogi_Byron.Horror_D_o}
%\include{stories/Funk_In_Shoe.I_am___bf_}
\include{stories/Funk_In_Shoe.I_am___bf_}
%\include{stories/Zarimus.Little_Men}
\include{stories/CannedMacabre.For_the_Ch}
\include{stories/Ridgely__Fan.The_Cocoon}

637
stories/Syphilicious_.What_Lurks.tex
View File

@ -2,445 +2,326 @@
\by{Syphilicious!}
Thursday night, and everything is quiet. Unusual for me, but in my
current settings it should be expected; instead of walking my beat
in the thug-infested alleys of our dear city, I am far out in the
country, at Old Woman McCannshire's place, engaged in a staring
contest with the termites that crawl in and out of the floor of her
porch as I wait for her to answer the door. The middle of nowhere
does not properly describe my location; I'd been driving so long
that I'm probably already halfway out. My name is Luke Bavarius,
and I'm a detective, but tonight I appear to be the guy that drives
around checking under old biddies' beds for monsters.
current settings it should be expected; instead of walking my beat in
the thug-infested alleys of our dear city, I am far out in the country,
at Old Woman McCannshire's place, engaged in a staring contest with the
termites that crawl in and out of the floor of her porch as I wait for
her to answer the door. The middle of nowhere does not properly describe
my location; I'd been driving so long that I'm probably already halfway
out. My name is Luke Bavarius, and I'm a detective, but tonight I appear
to be the guy that drives around checking under old biddies' beds for
monsters.
Even the pranks get men sent out these days. A prank is what I would
have thought this would be if I didn't know the old woman calling was
too addled to even have a teenager's sense of humor. McCannshire thinks
her house is haunted by spirits, and wants one of us ``wonderful young
men you have working down there'' to come check it out. I'm almost glad I
forgot to bring my spare ammunition for my Beretta out here; I've used
that thing enough today considering my nerves are just about as shot as
those three bank robbers, and if this goose chase got any more boring
I'd probably put it in my mouth and make brain gumbo.
The unlatching of bolts awakens me from my reverie, and my head snaps
back up into the proper position. ``You win this time, termites,'' I
mutter, wiping a thin string of drool from my chin. Slowly, the door
creaks open, and I am treated to the sight of Mrs. McCannshire in a
wispy white nightgown. Perhaps in the prime of her youth this might have
been something I could have tolerated or even enjoyed, but the broad has
long been in her more tender years of age, her face has more wrinkles
than the wandering Jew's underwear, and her nightgown is greasy with the
mysterious secretions of the elderly. I try to focus on the mangy grey
poodle she cradles in one arm, a dirty little mutt that she probably
pampers like nobody's business. She really fits the picture of an old
bag of bones, and as soon as she opens her mouth I can tell how far gone
she really she is.
Even the pranks get men sent out these days. A prank is what I
would have thought this would be, if I didn't know the old woman
calling was too addled to even have a teenager's sense of humor.
McCannshire thinks her house is haunted by spirits, and wants one
of us ``wonderful young men you have working down there'' to come
check it out. I'm almost glad I forgot to bring my spare ammunition
for my Beretta out here; I've used that thing enough today
considering my nerves are just about as shot as those three bank
robbers, and if this goose chase got any more boring I'd probably
put it in my mouth and make brain gumbo.
``Are you the detective Officer Dent sent over to help with the spirits
in my house?'' She speaks slowly and clearly, her eyes twin moons of
gawkish innocence. I don't know which kind of dementia would be worse:
the flavor Mrs. McCannshire possesses where one is magically returned to
the age of nine or the other one where you think the walls are talking
to you. Although, considering why I was here, it's possible she suffered
from the latter too.
``Uh\ldots yes. Yes, ma'am. Officer Dent is my, uh, superior.'' I step past
her and walk inside, trying to ignore the subdued growl the mutt in her
hands has started up upon sight of me. The place is clean to a point;
there are numerous tables and shelves bedecked with pictures and family
heirlooms, all meticulously dusted, but the carpet is smeared with dirty
pawprints and general dust and filth, it's frayed and ragged material
likely not blessed by the gentle touch of a vaccuum cleaner for
years. The carpet and walls are an ugly matching beige and all the
miscellaneous objects, despite constant care, have lost their
luster. The only sign of real color comes from the bathroom behind the
door opposite the one I had come in, wherein an even more hideous bright
lime green covers the small amount of wall I can see around the door.
I turn to face her, reaching into the folds of my trenchcoat and drawing
out a pack of cigarettes and my lighter. ``Now, what seems to be the
problem here?'' A lazy puff of smoke floats serenely past my raised
eyebrow from my now lit cigarette.
The unlatching of bolts awakens me from my reverie, and my head
snaps back up into the proper position. ``You win this time,
termites,'' I mutter, wiping a thin string of drool from my chin.
Slowly, the door creaks open, and I am treated to the sight of Mrs.
McCannshire in a wispy white nightgown. Perhaps in the prime of her
youth this might have been something I could have tolerated or even
enjoyed, but the broad has long been in her more tender years of
age, her face has more wrinkles than the wandering Jew's underwear,
and her nightgown is greasy with the mysterious secretions of the
elderly. I try to focus on the mangy grey poodle she cradles in one
arm, a dirty little mutt that she probably pampers like nobody's
business. She really fits the picture of an old bag of bones, and
as soon as she opens her mouth I can tell how far gone she really
she is.
``Are you the detective Officer Dent sent over to help with the
spirits in my house?'' She speaks slowly and clearly, her eyes twin
moons of gawkish innocence. I don't know which kind of dementia
would be worse: the flavor Mrs. McCannshire possesses where one is
magically returned to the age of nine or the other one where you
think the walls are talking to you. Although, considering why I was
here, it's possible she suffered from the latter too.
``Uh{\ldots}yes. Yes, ma'am. Officer Dent is my, uh, superior.'' I stepped
past her and walked inside, trying to ignore the subdued growl the
mutt in her hands had started up upon sight of me. The place was
clean to a point; there were numerous tables and shelves bedecked
with pictures and family heirlooms, all meticulously dusted, but
the carpet was smeared with dirty pawprints and general dust and
filth, it's frayed and ragged material likely not blessed by the
gentle touch of a vaccuum cleaner for years. The carpet and walls
were an ugly matching beige and all the miscellaneous objects,
despite constant care, had lost their luster. The only sign of real
color came from the bathroom behind the door opposite the one I had
come in, wherein an even more hideous bright lime green covered the
small amount of wall I could see around the door.
I turned to face her, reaching into the folds of my trenchcoat and
drawing out a pack of cigarettes and my lighter. ``Now, what seems
to be the problem here?'' A lazy puff of smoke floated serenely past
my raised eyebrow from my now lit cigarette.
``Well,'' she said, setting the dog down onto the carpet where it did
an annoying little dance around our legs, barking and whining,
``I've been noticing things for several days now, but only this
morning did it get really bad. You see, every time I use the
bathroom I feel someone is watching me.''
``Well,'' she says, setting the dog down onto the carpet where it does an
annoying little dance around our legs, barking and whining, ``I've been
noticing things for several days now, but only this morning did it get
really bad. You see, every time I use the bathroom I feel someone is
watching me.''
``How can you tell?''
``Well, at first it was just an uneasy feeling. But then I started
hearing voices that would say things that I couldn't make out. Then
I started seeing faces out of the corner of my eye or in a
reflection. And this is happening quite often, mind you. It's
happened every time I go in there, and these days I tend to{\ldots}oh,
how should I say it{\ldots}do my business more often, mostly because
my--''
``I understand, I understand,'' I said hurriedly. ``Please,
continue.''
``Well, uh, this morning, I saw a face in the mirror behind me. And
I didn't just see it, either; it was directly behind me, an entire
person, and he didn't go away until I turned round.''
hearing voices that would say things that I couldn't make out. Then I
started seeing faces out of the corner of my eye or in a reflection. And
this is happening quite often, mind you. It's happened every time I go
in there, and these days I tend to\ldots oh, how should I say it\ldots
do my business more often, mostly because my--''
``I understand, I understand,'' I say hurriedly. ``Please, continue.''
``Well, uh, this morning, I saw a face in the mirror behind me. And I
didn't just see it, either; it was directly behind me, an entire person,
and he didn't go away until I turned round.''
My eyebrow, which had just started to head home for the day, turned
right back around and marched up my forehead. This sounded
legitimately interesting. Whatever had actually happened, seeing a
person plain as day was a lot better than imaginary sounds or
tricks of light that even happened to people who weren't sitting
outside Death's doorstep in motorized wheelchairs. There was really
only one thing to do.
``Well, I guess you'll have to show me the bathroom then, Mrs.
McCannshire.''
``Right you are, dear.'' She seems to notice that my gaze had strayed
to the pictures on the small table next to the front door, and as
she hobbles past me towards the bathroom she begins to talk about
her dead husband. Half listening to her talk about the dangers of
late term prostate cancer and wincing at the intimate descriptions
she gives of the times she went with him for his checkups, I search
for an ashtray and find one nestled in between boxes of tissue and
stack of gardening books. I rub the flame out and leave the stub,
resolving not to smoke any more until I leave the house. The old
woman doesn't need all that smoke.
right back around and marched up my forehead. This sounded legitimately
interesting. Whatever had actually happened, seeing a person plain as
day is a lot better than imaginary sounds or tricks of light that even
happened to people who weren't sitting outside Death's doorstep in
motorized wheelchairs. There is really only one thing to do.
``Well, I guess you'll have to show me the bathroom then,
Mrs. McCannshire.''
``Right you are, dear.'' She seems to notice that my gaze has strayed to
the pictures on the small table next to the front door, and as she
hobbles past me towards the bathroom she begins to talk about her dead
husband. Half listening to her talk about the dangers of late term
prostate cancer and wincing at the intimate descriptions she gives of
the times she went with him for his checkups, I search for an ashtray
and find one nestled in between boxes of tissue and stack of gardening
books. I rub the flame out and leave the stub, resolving not to smoke
any more until I leave the house. The old woman doesn't need all that
smoke.
As I join her in the bathroom, I see that her poodle has the same
idea. It flies past me and sits whining at her feet until she
relents and picks it up again. I stand next to her and look around
the room. The mirror is old but clean, and the porcelain throne in
the corner is the same. I look into the sink, and from the short,
curly gray hairs lining the rim I deduce that she washes the dog in
it; either that or she's more up on the trends of women of today
than you'd think of a gal her age.
idea. It flies past me and sits whining at her feet until she relents
and picks it up again. I stand next to her and look around the room. The
mirror is old but clean, and the porcelain throne in the corner is the
same. I look into the sink, and from the short, curly gray hairs lining
the rim I deduce that she washes the dog in it; either that or she's
more up on the trends of women of today than you'd think of a gal her
age.
The horror of the thought further distracts me, and I begin to develop
that thousand yard stare as she tells me about the various scary
encounters she has experienced while voiding her bowels, unnecessarily
clueing me in on the second part in her stories too. Technically I am
looking at the hot water handle, but I am miles away, back on a real
cop's beat or in the arms of a good woman, whichever one does a better
job of distracting me from her current tale of a mysterious voice
whispering in what she thinks is Latin and the effects of the creamed
corn she had with lunch two days ago. Suddenly I spy in the reflection
from the mirror that the dog has the same idea. The yappy little thing
now sits silent and unmoving in her arms, staring intently into the eyes
of its reflection.
At first I am grateful for the relative silence that its new object of
interest has provided, but after a minute it begins to make my skin go
all goosey. I've never seen a dog sit that still for anything. I slowly
move my hand in front of its face, nodding to show Mrs. McCannshire I am
listening at a pause in her latest story involving the cupboard swinging
open and almost hitting her in the head and how the fright really helped
``loosen things, down there''. I pass my hand back in forth in front of
the dog's vision to no effect. In a moment of clarity I drudge up the
dog's name out of its owner's ramblings.
The horror of the thought further distracts me, and I begin to
develop that thousand yard stare as she tells me about the various
scary encounters she has experienced while voiding her bowels,
unnecessarily clueing me in on the second part in her stories too.
Technically I am looking at the hot water handle, but I am miles
away, back on a real cop's beat or in the arms of a good woman,
whichever one does a better job of distracting me from her current
tale of a mysterious voice whispering in what she thinks is Latin
and the effects of the creamed corn she had with lunch two days
ago. Suddenly I spy in the reflection from the mirror that the dog
has the same idea. The yappy little thing now sits silent and
unmoving in her arms, staring intently into the eyes of its
reflection.
At first I am grateful for the relative silence that its new object
of interest has provided, but after a minute it begins to make my
skin go all goosey. I've never seen a dog sit that still for
anything. I slowly move my hand in front of its face, nodding to
show Mrs. McCannshire I am listening at a pause in her latest story
involving the cupboard swinging open and almost hitting her in the
head and how the fright really helped ``loosen things, down there''.
I pass my hand back in forth in front of the dog's vision to no
effect. In a moment of clarity I drudge up the dog's name out of
its owner's ramblings.
``Jasper! Hey, Jasper!'' At once the dog is a flurry of motion,
leaping out of her hands and latching onto the watch around my
wrist with its teeth. I stumble backwards into the main room and
fall to the floor, frantically batting at the hideous ball of fur
as it growls like a recently castrated bear. Instinct takes over;
my mind recognizes when I am in a fight for my life even when the
opponent is a 15-pound owl pellet. Without thinking I wrap the palm
of the hand it grips around its head and bash it repeatedly against
the edge of a bookshelf next to me, then stagger to my feet and
swing it around the room, screaming to match its rabid cries. All
of a sudden it flies free with a high pitched yelp and collides
with the table on which the ashtray rested and the table and its
contents tumble to the ground.
``Jasper! Hey, Jasper!'' At once the dog is a flurry of motion, leaping
out of her hands and latching onto the watch around my wrist with its
teeth. I stumble backwards into the main room and fall to the floor,
frantically batting at the hideous ball of fur as it growls like a
recently castrated bear. Instinct takes over; my mind recognizes when I
am in a fight for my life even when the opponent is a 15-pound owl
pellet. Without thinking I wrap the palm of the hand it grips around its
head and bash it repeatedly against the edge of a bookshelf next to me,
then stagger to my feet and swing it around the room, screaming to match
its rabid cries. All of a sudden it flies free with a high pitched yelp
and collides with the table on which the ashtray rested and the table
and its contents tumble to the ground.
I approach cautiously, waiting for my opponent to make some sign of
life. At once the small pile of picture frames and knicknacks
erupts as Jasper flies straight towards my face.
life. At once the small pile of picture frames and knicknacks erupts as
Jasper flies straight towards my face.
I have anticipated it; it passes fruitlessly over my head as I lean
backwards almost parallel to the floor, and I hear its frenzied
growling suddenly muffled. I push my spine back into place with one
hand and spin around only to see Jasper hanging from the ledge of a
desk, his jaw wrapped around it and his teeth grinding into it as
if he imagined it to be my arm. I act quickly, sparing no mercy.
With several steps I come upon the helpless creature and I lift a
booted foot to hover a foot away from the back of its skull.
backwards almost parallel to the floor, and I hear its frenzied growling
suddenly muffled. I push my spine back into place with one hand and spin
around only to see Jasper hanging from the ledge of a desk, his jaw
wrapped around it and his teeth grinding into it as if he imagined it to
be my arm. I act quickly, sparing no mercy. With several steps I come
upon the helpless creature and I lift a booted foot to hover a foot away
from the back of its skull.
``Chew on this, pooch.''
There is a loud, wet crack as its skull explodes like a balloon
filled with bones and blood. It's corpse falls silently to the
floor, followed by the lower half of his jaw and head. The top half
rests on top of the desk, firmly embedded into the wood. I curse
silently to myself and wipe my foot off on the carpet, leaving
behind a red smear flecked with hair and bits of bone.
There is a loud, wet crack as its skull explodes like a balloon filled
with bones and blood. It's corpse falls silently to the floor, followed
by the lower half of his jaw and head. The top half rests on top of the
desk, firmly embedded into the wood. I curse silently to myself and wipe
my foot off on the carpet, leaving behind a red smear flecked with hair
and bits of bone.
All at once I come to my senses, and I turn to see Mrs. McCannshire
standing at the bathroom door. For a second we both stand staring
wordlessly at each other, then she utters a soft cry and flees back
into the bathroom. I hear a soft click as she locks the door behind
her.
wordlessly at each other, then she utters a soft cry and flees back into
the bathroom. I hear a soft click as she locks the door behind her.
I sigh and walk over, knocking on the door. ``Mrs. McCannshire, I'm sorry
about Jasper, okay? I shouldn't have\ldots done that, but he was, I mean he
was attacking me. There was nothing else I could do.''
I continued to apologize while I listened to her sobs, trying to look
anywhere but back at that head, or that part of it, those sightless eyes
silently judging me. I've killed people before in my line of work, and I
see their faces when I close my eyes, but now this mutt was getting to
me more than any of them ever did. It was an irritable little thing, but
why did it up and attack me like that? What did it see in that mirror?
I sigh and walk over, knocking on the door. ``Mrs. McCannshire, I'm
sorry about Jasper, okay? I shouldn't have{\ldots}done that, but he was,
I mean he was attacking me. There was nothing else I could
do.''
I notice that the crying on the other side of the door has stopped, and
for a moment I feel relief. ``Mrs. McCannshire, if you can just come out
here we can talk about this. Again, I'm sorry about your dog, but--''
I am interrupted by the click of the lock, and as the door slowly comes
ajar I help her open it. She stands there, head down, and she looks so
depressed that I can't help but resume my apologies. ``If there's
anything I can do to pay you back for what I did, you name it. I really
can't tell you how sorry I am, I'll get you a new dog, whatever you
want. I'm sure I\ldots{}''
The look in her eyes when she raises her head is different than what
you'd think a hysterical old woman would have. They're more intelligent
than they were before, those eyes, and they seem to possess more menace
than I assume an old lady like that would be able to muster.
I continued to apologize while I listened to her sobs, trying to
look anywhere but back at that head, or that part of it, those
sightless eyes silently judging me. I've killed people before in my
line of work, and I see their faces when I close my eyes, but now
this mutt was getting to me more than any of them ever did. It was
an irritable little thing, but why did it up and attack me like
that? What did it see in that mirror?
One bony hand wraps around my throat with otherworldy strength, choking
off the rest of the sentence. She lifts me off my feet, pulls back, and
for a brief moment everything is serene.
Then I hit the wall. I slide down next to the open front door, and after
my eyes uncross and the black in front of my eyes goes away I use the
knob to pull myself up. I check for broken bones and don't find good
news in the ribs area, but other than that I am fine, if bruised.
``Well, you've got a good arm, I have to give you that.'' I think over my
options, running my tongue over my teeth. I can't hurt her; she's
obviously just possessed by whateve possessed that dog in the mirror. I
have to get the spirit out of her, or incapacitate her, but I don't know
how to perform exorcisms and at her age a gust of wind could kill
her. Although if she's able to throw like that maybe she's a lot
stronger in other ways too. What if I tied her up?
I notice that the crying on the other side of the door has stopped,
and for a moment I feel relief. ``Mrs. McCannshire, if you can just
come out here we can talk about this. Again, I'm sorry about your
dog, but--''
I am interrupted by the click of the lock, and as the door slowly
comes ajar I help her open it. She stands there, head down, and she
looks so depressed that I can't help but resume my apologies. ``If
there's anything I can do to pay you back for what I did, you name
it. I really can't tell you how sorry I am, I'll get you a new dog,
whatever you want. I'm sure I{\ldots}could{\ldots}uh{\ldots}''
The look in her eyes when she raises her head is different than
what you'd think a hysterical old woman would have. They're more
intelligent than they were before, those eyes, and they seem to
possess more menace than I assume an old lady like that would be
able to muster.
One bony hand wraps around my throat with otherworldy strength,
choking off the rest of the sentence. She lifts me off my feet,
pulls back, and for a brief moment everything is serene.
Then I hit the wall. I slide down next to the open front door, and
after my eyes uncross and the black in front of my eyes goes away I
use the knob to pull myself up. I check for broken bones and don't
find good news in the ribs area, but other than that I am fine, if
bruised.
``Well, you've got a good arm, I have to give you that.'' I think
over my options, running my tongue over my teeth. I can't hurt her;
she's obviously just possessed by whateve possessed that dog in the
mirror. I have to get the spirit out of her, or incapacitate her,
but I don't know how to perform exorcisms and at her age a gust of
wind could kill her. Although if she's able to throw like that
maybe she's a lot stronger in other ways too. What if I tied her
up?
Something makes my train of thought come to a screeching halt. It
hasn't reached the station, it's gone straight off the tracks.
There were no survivors.
My brain is recieving messages my tongue shouldn't be sending. It's
not finding something that should be there. I grab a polished
silver cup off a table and flash my teeth at my reflection. There's
a black square where there should be a nice little white one.
Something makes my train of thought come to a screeching halt. It hasn't
reached the station, it's gone straight off the tracks. There were no
survivors.
My brain is recieving messages my tongue shouldn't be sending. It's not
finding something that should be there. I grab a polished silver cup off
a table and flash my teeth at my reflection. There's a black square
where there should be a nice little white one.
I've lost a tooth.
This bitch is going to die.
I toss the cup and pull my piece, my finger already on the
trigger. Worse men talk about how their guns sing songs that only ever
have a few notes; that's played out, and anyway my Beretta never saw the
appeal in singing. It yells, and it only ever needs to raise its voice
once to win an argument with someone.
I toss the cup and pull my piece, my finger already on the trigger.
Worse men talk about how their guns sing songs that only ever have
a few notes; that's played out, and anyway my Beretta never saw the
appeal in singing. It yells, and it only ever needs to raise its
voice once to win an argument with someone.
As I aim down the sights at the old girl now barrelling towards me
from accross the room with a horrifying screech, I recall something
about not having ammunition, and I anticipate the empty little
click. Cursing wildly, I hurl the gun at her, and it bounces off
her forehead ineffectively. I reach for the knife strapped to my
leg down at my ankle, but it is too late; she knocks it out of my
hand with one swift strike just as I am bringing it up and it
clatters against the wall. She slams me up against the same patch
of wall that I'd said hello to twenty seconds ago and holds me at
arm's length against the wall, my head more than two feet higher
than hers and my feet off the ground clattering against the wall.
Both hands are wrapped around my neck and I am rapidly losing
oxygen. You need to do something now, I think. Or you're done,
As I aim down the sights at the old girl now barrelling towards me from
accross the room with a horrifying screech, I recall something about not
having ammunition, and I anticipate the empty little click. Cursing
wildly, I hurl the gun at her, and it bounces off her forehead
ineffectively. I reach for the knife strapped to my leg down at my
ankle, but it is too late; she knocks it out of my hand with one swift
strike just as I am bringing it up and it clatters against the wall. She
slams me up against the same patch of wall that I'd said hello to twenty
seconds ago and holds me at arm's length against the wall, my head more
than two feet higher than hers and my feet off the ground clattering
against the wall. Both hands are wrapped around my neck and I am rapidly
losing oxygen. You need to do something now, I think. Or you're done,
Luke. You're done.
Frantically my hands search for something, anything, to fight her off
with, finding nothing. I'm simply too far off the ground to reach
anything. I turn my head as much as her steel fingers allow, and through
my darkening vision I can barely see an umbrella stand with one large
black umbrella in it. In vain I stretch my left hand towards the handle,
my fingers finding air and then brushing the handle. I strain as hard as
I can as the pain advances and my sight blackens, and suddenly I have a
grip, I grasp it with the very tips of my fingers, bring it up to my
hand. She is laughing now, piercing and mocking, delighting in her
triumph. She doesn't keep it up for long. I raise the umbrella high
above my head then stab it down into her open mouth and throat, pushing
it into her esophagus as she spits and gurgles, her hands clutching even
tighter at my neck. The handle is just past her teeth, my hand gripping
it firmly even as she bites into my wrist. I use my thumb to find the
release and push it up.
The umbrella is spring operated, the fabric edged with sharp metal. Her
neck evaporates in a cloud of blood and her head shoots up into the
hair, twirling in the air like a basketball and falling to the ground
with I and the rest of her body.
Frantically my hands search for something, anything, to fight her
off with, finding nothing. I'm simply too far off the ground to
reach anything. I turn my head as much as her steel fingers allow,
and through my darkening vision I can barely see an umbrella stand
with one large black umbrella in it. In vain I stretch my left hand
towards the handle, my fingers finding air and then brushing the
handle. I strain as hard as I can as the pain advances and my sight
blackens, and suddenly I have a grip, I grasp it with the very tips
of my fingers, bring it up to my hand. She is laughing now,
piercing and mocking, delighting in her triumph. She doesn't keep
it up for long. I raise the umbrella high above my head then stab
it down into her open mouth and throat, pushing it into her
esophagus as she spits and gurgles, her hands clutching even
tighter at my neck. The handle is just past her teeth, my hand
gripping it firmly even as she bites into my wrist. I use my thumb
to find the release and push it up.
After a while, coughing and wheezing, I push her corpse off of me and
use the blood-soaked umbrella to stand up. As soon as I try to walk
towards the nearest chair, I stumble and trip over her head. Standing up
again, I look back down at the bloody mess on the carpet and on me. I
feel bile rising in my throat, and I turn to run to the bathroom.
I push past the door and stagger to the sink, where I vomit noisily and
stand for a while, staring into this puddle of my own sick. After what
seems like forever I look up and into my reflection in the mirror. I am
hunched over the sink, my hands still grasping the sides, my mouth
hanging open and a thin trail of vomit hanging from my lower lip. My
eyes are wet with tears from the choking and the vomiting.
Truly I am a pitiful sight. I give myself a weak smile, as if it will
cheer me up. I can't help but notice that something is off in my
reflection, but I can't think what. Then I tongue the gap where my tooth
used to be. My reflection does not. It still has the full set.
The umbrella is spring operated, the fabric edged with sharp metal.
Her neck evaporates in a cloud of blood and her head shoots up into
the hair, twirling in the air like a basketball and falling to the
ground with I and the rest of her body.
After a while, coughing and wheezing, I push her corpse off of me
and use the blood-soaked umbrella to stand up. As soon as I try to
walk towards the nearest chair, I stumble and trip over her head.
Standing up again, I look back down at the bloody mess on the
carpet and on me. I feel bile rising in my throat, and I turn to
run to the bathroom.
I push past the door and stagger to the sink, where I vomit noisily
and stand for a while, staring into this puddle of my own sick.
After what seems like forever I look up and into my reflection in
the mirror. I am hunched over the sink, my hands still grasping the
sides, my mouth hanging open and a thin trail of vomit hanging from
my lower lip. My eyes are wet with tears from the choking and the
vomiting.
Truly I am a pitiful sight. I give myself a weak smile, as if it
will cheer me up. I can't help but notice that something is off in
my reflection, but I can't think what. Then I tongue the gap where
my tooth used to be. My reflection does not. It still has the full
set.
The reflection straightens its back and wipes the vomit away, dries
its eyes with the sleeve of its shirt, and all I can do is stare in
dumb incomprehension. It is the same short black hair, the same
baby blue eyes, the same trenchcoat, the same man, yet it moves of
its own free will. It is me and yet it is not me.
It has an almost condecending look in its eyes as it reaches down
below the sink, to its ankle. It comes back up, my knife in its
hands, its knife, and I cannot move a muscle.
The reflection straightens its back and wipes the vomit away, dries its
eyes with the sleeve of its shirt, and all I can do is stare in dumb
incomprehension. It is the same short black hair, the same baby blue
eyes, the same trenchcoat, the same man, yet it moves of its own free
will. It is me and yet it is not me.
It has an almost condecending look in its eyes as it reaches down below
the sink, to its ankle. It comes back up, my knife in its hands, its
knife, and I cannot move a muscle.
There is a flash of metal. He cuts through my throat like
cheesecake. The arterial spray gives a good portion of the shitty
green paint job a new coat from the opposite side of the color
wheel. There is a brief sense of motion, and I taste ceramic, my
body thudding to the bathroom floor. I move my mouth wordlessly as
red begins to creep along the grout in between the white tiles. I
hear a shuffle of fabic as my other self steps through the mirror
and lowers himself from the sink to the floor. He steps over my
body, taking care to not step in the advancing pool of blood.
cheesecake. The arterial spray gives a good portion of the shitty green
paint job a new coat from the opposite side of the color wheel. There is
a brief sense of motion, and I taste ceramic, my body thudding to the
bathroom floor. I move my mouth wordlessly as red begins to creep along
the grout in between the white tiles. I hear a shuffle of fabic as my
other self steps through the mirror and lowers himself from the sink to
the floor. He steps over my body, taking care to not step in the
advancing pool of blood.
My vision begins to cloud for the last time as he casts the knife
absentmindedly down in front me. It slides to a halt next to my
forehead. He begins to walk towards the front door, then stops,
turns around. He walks cooly back to me, crouches in front of me,
grimacing at the blood that is in danger of soiling the knee of his
pants. He looks me in the eyes, and begins to say something, then
thinks better of it. He does nothing for a second, simply watches
me dying, then reaches over, placing an index and middle finger on
my eyelids, and then he slides them shut.
forehead. He begins to walk towards the front door, then stops, turns
around. He walks cooly back to me, crouches in front of me, grimacing at
the blood that is in danger of soiling the knee of his pants. He looks
me in the eyes, and begins to say something, then thinks better of
it. He does nothing for a second, simply watches me dying, then reaches
over, placing an index and middle finger on my eyelids, and then he
slides them shut.
``Good night, Luke.''

278
stories/The_Bananana.Deja_Vu.tex
View File

@ -2,136 +2,163 @@
\by{The Bananana}
Luke awoke in a bed.
Luke awoke in a bed. He stared at the ceiling and searched his mind
for his surroundings. He couldn't remember a thing. His head
ached, pounded as he struggled to sit up. He was in a clean white
room.
He stared at the ceiling; his head ached, pounded as he struggled to sit
up. He was in a clean white room.
There was a noise. Familiar. Welcome.
Beneath the door drifted the smell of home. Of warm bread. Of eggs.
The sounds and clatter of morning seeped through as well. He swung
his legs over the side of the bed. His head was still aching, but
it was lessening.
The window, with drawn curtains yellowed with age, easily let light into
the room. The sun flooded the room, bouncing off the floor with a soft
mahogany glow, and gave the entire room a hospitable warmth. The
blanket, worn and frayed with use, was nonetheless comfortable, and only
added to the rooms ivory radiance. Beyond the tarnished brass rail
footboard was the only other thing in the room that wasn't. A black
door, defiant and bold, contrasted the pearlescent efforts of the rest
of the room.
Beneath the door drifted the smell of home. Of warm bread. Of eggs. The
sounds and clatter of morning seeped through as well; of voices
murmuring, talking, laughing, accompanied by a symphony of pots and
pans.
Luke swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head still ached, but
it was lessening; he still couldn't remember a thing, everything before
waking up just felt like a hazy dream. He searched the room for his
personal affects to no avail. No shoes or clothes, no wallet or keys,
and most importantly, no holster.
He didn't like any of it but, at least for now, he felt in no real
danger, and decided to take a look around and see what he could find out
about\ldots about everything.
He stood.
The sun's beams had warmed the floor. He stretched, lost his
balance, and feel back to the bed. He lay there, lying in the
light, when he began to listen.
He savored the feel of the sun warmed floor. He stretched, reaching for
the speckled ceiling before he lost his balance and feel back onto the
bed. He lay there, basking in the light, when he began to listen more
closely to the sounds behind the door.
A voice, He recognized it. Then another. He knew them both.
That voice. He recognized it! The other too! He knew them both.
No, he thought, he must be dreaming.
No, he thought. He had to be dreaming. There was no way he had heard
right.
He got up and turned towards the door. Behind him, through the
windows, the trees began dancing lightly in a sudden fresh
breeze.
He got up and turned towards the door. Behind him, through the window,
the trees began dancing lightly in a sudden fresh breeze.
He inched to the door, and reached for the knob, and recoiled in
pain, as the hot door burned his hand.
He stepped to the door, and reached for the knob. He felt a warm heat
radiating from the door. But the voices persisted. He had to know who
was just beyond the door. He grabbed the knob, and instantly recoiled in
pain as the burning hot steel bit into his hand.
``What are you doing'' asked a young boy from the corner
of the room, surprising Luke.
``What are you doing'' asked a young boy from the corner of the room.
He was small. Pale. He looked unwell.
He had startled Luke, and was lucky the cold steel of his Berretta wasn'
t weighing against his chest like it normally did. The child, no more
than 10 years old looked pale and unwell. He looked as though his mother
had dressed him for church, black Sunday suit, shined black shoes, even
his jet black hair looked as though it had been slicked back by an
overbearing mother.
``Wha{\ldots}who are you''? Luke said, studying the
stranger.
``Wha\ldots who are you? What am I doing here? Do\ldots Do you live
here, is this your home''? Luke said, studying the strange child.
``That wasn't part of the deal'' the boy
replied.
``That wasn't part of the deal'' the boy replied eerily un-phased by
Luke's questions.
Deal? Luke didn't know what the kid was talking about.
``Don't open the door'' the boy warned.
Luke knew what was on the other side. His family. His wife. His
son. Sitting, waiting. Her red locks swaying and bouncing as she
prepared their breakfast. His boy, sitting at the table, his feet
dangling from the chair, smiling and laughing.
Luke knew what was on the other side. The voices he had heard, the
voices he could hear right now, were of his family. His wife. His
son. Sitting, waiting. He could hear them now, as he listened, he could
see them in his mind. Her red locks swaying and bouncing as she prepared
their breakfast. His boy, sitting at the table, his feet dangling from
the chair, smiling and laughing.
The young boy persisted.
The young boy continued.
Don't open the door.'' He said again.
``Don't open the door.'' He said again.
The room grew dark.
Luke looked outside, and watched as the trees now shook and swayed
violently amidst an angry grass sea, heaving beneath the dark sky,
as rain began to pelt the glass.
violently amidst an angry grass sea, heaving beneath the dark sky, as
rain began to pelt the glass.
``What are you doing here? Who are you?'' Luke tried
again.
``What are you doing here? Who are you?'' Luke tried again.
``You're not listening.'' the boy's eyes
narrowed and he continued,
``You're not listening.'' the boy's eyes narrowed and he carried on,
``Enjoy it. Lay back down this time. Stay and enjoy it.''
``Enjoy it. Lay down this time. Stay and enjoy
it.''
The kid must have been sick. He wasn't making any
The kid must be sick, Luke thought to himself, he's not making any
sense.
``I've got a son about your age, he's right in
there'' Luke said pointing to the door.
``I've got a son about your age, he's right in there'' Luke said
pointing to the door, trying to distract the child, ``Do you have any
friends? I'm sure my boy will play with you. Do you like pancakes? My
wife, she makes the best pancakes.''
``Do you have any friends? I'm sure my boy will play
with you. Do you like pancakes? My wife, she makes the best
pancakes.''
``Luke'', the boy cut him off, ``Your son and wife are dead. They've
been dead, since the fire. You know that. You know the deal. Stay
here. Enjoy it.''
``Luke'', the boy cut him off, ``Your son and wife
are dead. They've been dead, since the fire. You know the
deal. Stay here. Enjoy it.''
``What do you know about my wife and son? What do you mean they're
dead.'' He stared at the child, ``Boy, I know your sick but you can't
talk like that, it's not right. Listen, listen to them, can't you hear
them, they're in there right now, look I'll show you'' Luke turned to
the door.
``What do you know about my wife and son? What do you mean
they're dead.'' He stared at the child
``Please Luke,'' The boys face was unchanged, his voice placid but
firm. ``Don't open the do\ldots{}''
``Boy, I know your sick but you can't talk like that,
it's not right. Listen, listen to them, can't you hear
them, they're in there right now, look I'll show
you'' Luke turned to the door.
``Hey!'' Luke yelled interrupting the boy, ``now I don't know what in
the hell you're going on about, but it ends right now. Get out of here
you sick freak, get out! Get ou-'' Luke searched for something to
threaten the boy with, grabbing a lamp that had been behind him, but he
turned back only to find the boy had disappeared, he was gone.
``Please Luke,'' The boys face was unchanged, his voice
placid but firm and sure. ``Don't open the
do{\ldots}''
Luke rubbed his eyes. Had the boy really just vanished? It was
impossible. As he stood there wondering what had just happened, he
noticed that his head didn't hurt any more. He turned to search the
room again, search for the boy, search for his belongings. He looked out
the window. Outside the air was now enraged, thrashing about flinging
rain and debris everywhere. It made Luke more even more uneasy, but he
remembered the door, and he shook the feeling off. He reached once again
for the knob, as the roar filled his ears.
``Hey!'' Luke interrupted, ``now I don't know
what in the hell you're going on about, but it ends right
now. Get out of here you sick freak, get out''! And the boy
was gone.
He grasped the knob tightly preparing for the searing pain when suddenly
it was deafeningly quiet. He turned and looked back outside. It was
bright, very bright out, and the trees and sky were calm. The door was
cool to the touch, and Luke pulled open the door, eager to see his
family.
Luke rubbed his eyes. Had the boy really just vanished? As he
wondered what had just happened, he noticed that his head
didn't hurt any more. Outside the air was now enraged,
thrashing about flinging rain and debris everywhere. It made Luke
more even more uneasy, but he remembered the door, and he shook the
feeling off. He reached once again for the knob, as the roar filled
his ears.
Black. Charred wood. Everything, all of it, consumed. He steeped through
the crumbling doorway.
And he grasped the knob and suddenly it was deafeningly quiet. He
turned and looked back outside. It was bright, very bright out, and
the trees and sky were calm. The door was cool to the touch, and
Luke pulled open the door, eager to see his family.
A burnt frame stood in place of former walls; the ghastly skeleton now
surrounded all the ash and rubble that had been a home. Outside,
surrounding the house were people. Fire crews, emergency personnel,
neighbors, all of them just standing around the house, all of them just
silently, chillingly starring. Luke was standing in what used to be a
kitchen, when he recognized it. This was his house, this used to be his
home. Where the sink had been rose a pair of pipes, jagged and singed,
but sturdy and resilient. And then he saw them. Across the blackened
room lay the dark remains of a woman clutching a child.
Black. Charred wood. Everything, all of it, consumed. HE steeped
through the crumbling doorway. The burnt skeleton of walls now
surrounded all the ash and rubble that was once his home. Outside,
surrounding the house were hundreds of people, just starring. Near
the pipes where the sink had been, lay the dark remains of a woman
clutching a child.
He couldn't breathe, he couldn't swallow. Grief and
sorrow were throttling him, and suddenly he let loose in heaving
spasms as he ran to his family. He knelt, sobbing, over what was
left of them.
He couldn't breathe, he couldn't swallow. Grief and sorrow were
throttling him, and suddenly he let loose in heaving spasms as he ran to
his family. He knelt, sobbing, over what was left of them.
``No'' he uttered
The crowd erupted in a bellowing barrage of whispers
The crowd erupted in a bellowing barrage of whispers that come from
everywhere and nowhere at once. Not on person's mouth was moving and
yet their voices were infinite, filling the air with an angry accusatory
heat.
``You did this''
@ -143,69 +170,62 @@ The crowd erupted in a bellowing barrage of whispers
``They came for you''
``No{\ldots}NO!'' Luke screamed, ``I couldn't
stop them{\ldots}''
``No\ldots {\bf no!}'' Luke screamed, ``I couldn't stop them\ldots{}''
``I tried to save them'', he continued.
Amidst the churning crowd suddenly stood the boy again.
``I asked you not to open the door this time. I asked you to
stay on the other side.''
``I asked you not to open the door this time. I asked you to stay on the
other side.''
``I{\ldots}I tried to save them'' Luke sputtered
out
``I\ldots I tried to save them'' Luke sputtered out.
``No'' reasoned the boy, ``no, you damned them. You
dug too deep into our affairs; you stuck your nose in our business.
It was you that did this to your wife. To your son. You are
responsible.''
``No'' reasoned the boy, ``no, you damned them. You dug too deep into
our affairs; you stuck your nose in our business. When we sent our men
here to fire the house, we sent them for you. It was you that did this
to your wife. To your son. You are responsible.''
``I tried{\ldots}I came home{\ldots}the flames, they were
everywhere'' Luke carried on, distantly.
``I tried\ldots I came home\ldots the flames, they were everywhere'' Luke carried
on, distantly.
``There's more.'' Said the boy,
``there's more for you''
``But don't worry. There's more.'' Said the boy, ``We have much more
for you''
``No, it doesn't matter now'', Luke said sitting
up, looking at the boy
``No,'' Luke said sitting up, looking at the boy. ``it doesn't matter
now''
His hollowed eyes and emotionless gaze should have terrified
Luke.
The child stared back with hollowed eyes and an emotionless gaze that
should have terrified Luke.
``You can't do anything to me now{\ldots}just kill me.
Kill me''
``You can't do anything to me now\ldots just kill me. Kill me''
The boy's brows furrowed, his face twisted, pulled and broke.
He smiled, and then began to laugh.
The boy's brows furrowed, his face twisted, pulled and broke. He
smiled, and then began to laugh.
``Kill you?'' He said regaining his composure,
``Why? Why would I kill you? No. We have something much worse
for you.'' And the crowd's accusing chants began to
bleed through the boy's speech. They screamed now. Angry,
haunting, they pierced through Luke's hands as he covered his
ears.
``Kill you?'' He said regaining his composure, ``Why? Why would I kill
you? No. We have something much worse for you.'' The crowd's maddening
chants began to bleed through the boy's speech. They seemed to scream
now, everyone of them and none of them at once. Angry, haunting howls
pierced through Luke's hands as he covered his ears.
``No, {\bf noo!}'' he screamed as he began to beat his head
against the rubble. But it did nothing to lessen the shrieking
crowd. He had to end it. He saw the pipe, sticking out of the
foundation. Its jagged end would easily drive through his
head.
``No, {\bf noo!}'' he screamed as he began to beat his head against the
rubble. But it did nothing to lessen the shrieking crowd. He had to end
it. He looked around and saw the pipe sticking out of the foundation. It'
ll do he thought.
He stood, the cries and screams still pursuing and punishing him.
He took a breath and slammed his head down.
He stood, the cries and screams still pursuing and punishing him. He
struggled over to the pipe, rusty and charred. He'd have to be
quick. He'd only get one chance. He took a breath and slammed his head
down.
Luke awoke in a bed.
Luke awoke in a bed. He stared at the ceiling and searched his mind
for his surroundings. He couldn't remember a thing. His head
ached, pounded as he struggled to sit up. He was in a clean white
room.
He stared at the ceiling; his head ached, pounded as he struggled to sit
up. He was in a clean white room.
There was a noise. Familiar. Welcome.