Director’s Cut

by R D Doan

Monty could almost taste the blood that needed to be spilled. His skin crawled with anticipation, but he was trapped in his director’s seat filming yet another abhorrent take in what should be the last scene in his first feature film.

They’d reshot this scene at least a dozen times. Each take like the last. He found it difficult to focus on directing when all he could think about was scratching an itch he couldn’t scratch. He needed to do something soon or he might explode. He had to call it. He was sure he could salvage something from one of the takes. He just wanted to be done with this film and get on to what really mattered.

“That’s a wrap!” he called, eliciting cheers from the cast and crew. They were no doubt happy to be done filming as well. It had been a long three months.

“Gather round, gather round! Great work, everyone. Really. It was a pleasure to work with so many talented people on this. You’ve all made my transition from online films to the big screen look easier than it should have. It’s hard to believe that a year’s passed since first getting the opportunity to make this film. And let me tell you, it’s gonna be great, and I owe it all to you!”

There were more cheers in reply.

“Really, from the bottom of my heart, thank you,” Monty said, while locking eyes with a brunette a few rows deep in the crowd. “Thank you.”

#

As the crowd began to disperse, Monty looked for the brunette, whose hair was held in a bun with two metal hair sticks. He found her chatting with another young actress.

“Bridgett! Hey Bridgette! Hold on a sec,” Monty called, running to catch up with her.

She finished her conversation and turned her attention to Monty as he approached.

“Bridget. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Me?” she asked, looking a little surprised that he knew her name.

“Of course, you! Do you have a minute?  Maybe we can go somewhere to talk.”

“Sure. I mean, like, now? Okay.”

Monty placed his arm around her shoulders and started to guide her off the set. He could tell she was feeling a little uncomfortable with his touch.

“Bridgette, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, I mean, I think you did a wonderful job on this film; but, you have so much more potential! I think you did a great job in your role here, but, let me tell you, I’d just kill to have you in another project I’ve been working on.”

“Really Mr. Brinker?” she asked. Monty felt better as she seemed a little less creeped out, and more excited about being offered a role. “What kind of role is it?”

“Let’s just say you were made for this role. All I need to do is get you on film for a screen test, and we’ll be all set.”

Bridgette slowed her gait to a near halt. “I don’t know Mr. Brinker.” Monty sensed her trepidation. He could tell she was starting to think he was trying to seduce her. He didn’t want to scare her off.

Monty assured her, “Whoa. It’s not like that!” he laughed. “Honestly! Look, wait here. I’m going to go in my office here and get my camera. I’ll show you. We can even do it out here in the open if you’d feel more comfortable about it. I promise. I’m not here to do any creepy Weinstein shit. Scout’s honor!” He held up three fingers in a scout sign for effect.

Bridgette cast her gaze to her feet, then back to Monty. “Okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“Bridgette. Don’t sweat it. I get it. Just, hold still. I’ll be right back. I promise.”

#

Monty wasn’t gone long. He returned carrying a small handheld tape recorder. It looked similar to the one his dad used when he shot family videos during his childhood. It recorded on cassette tapes rather than digital format. Monty wanted to get shots like his father before him; and what better way than with a camera like his?

“See?” Monty asked, showing her the recorder. “Now, how ‘bout I have you stand over there by the door…right there. Good.” He glanced around and saw that the last of the cast and crew had left. They were finally alone.

He looked at her through the viewfinder of the camera and said, “Not quite. How ‘bout you stand in the doorway; maybe rest your left hand on the doorframe?”

She backed awkwardly into the doorway and put her hand on the doorframe at shoulder level. “Like this?” she asked.

“Maybe higher up. Perfect,” Monty replied.

He again appraised his shot through the viewfinder and nodded in approval.

“Alright. We’re almost ready. One more thing. Let’s do something about your hair.”

He approached her and pulled the hair sticks out of her bun, spilling her hair to her shoulders.

“Looks better this way,” he said as he tucked her hair behind her ears. “Perfect.”

Monty leaned in to whisper into her ear, “I’m going to make you very famous, Bridgette.”

He stabbed her between the third and fourth rib with her hair stick, piercing the heart.

He pulled out and applied pressure to the wound, effectively trapping her blood in the lungs and pericardium around the heart.

She was speechless in her shock, and soon, as blood filled around her heart and lungs, she struggled to breath. She gaped at him in terror as she approached her death. He helped her to the floor when her legs weakened and positioned her back in a sleeping pose.

He raised the camera and pressed record. He wanted to record her pleading eyes as life escaped her.

“Smile, Bridgette. You’re famous!”

#

“The devil is in the details, Monty, and there isn’t enough devil in this horror film’s details!”

Monty was used to casting, shooting and editing on his own when he made his online horror flicks. He wasn’t used to sharing the task with an editing team; nor was he used to producers breathing down his neck injecting their opinions on the film’s direction.

“Why don’t you stick to negotiating with studio reps, and let me do what I do best,” Monty replied, annoyed by his producer’s constant interjections.

“Don’t get me wrong, man. I love this film! It just needs… I don’t know, more blood or… something. Your shit usually feels more real than this. It’s missing something.”

Monty rubbed his face and sighed. “I can only work with what I’ve got, David.”

“Your online stuff always felt so real. This just feels, I don’t know, forced? Fake?”

“What do you want me to do, David? We’re already over budget. Reshooting or recasting could bury this film!” Monty ran his hand through his hair.

“Are you sure you’ve gone through all the footage? You’ve got to have something somewhere that can fix this. I can’t take a loss on this, man. C’mon, think.”

“Maybe,” Monty was thinking of his pet project. If I only use a few of the girls. If I use footage from too many, someone might connect the dots. “Okay, so hear me out. There’s more film on a few of the death scenes, but it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“I have two scenes that I left out. I thought… I thought maybe they might be too sensitive in light of recent events, so I opted to keep them out of the film.”

“Bridgette and Anya.”

“Yeah.”

“I can see how including death scenes on two missing actresses can be in bad taste, but how do we know they aren’t on an exotic trip or some shit? Millenials do crazy shit like that all the time, don’t they? Whether they’re dead or alive, I don’t really care. What they do after they leave the set is their business. All I know is that this movie needs to be better. If those shots can help the film, I say we put them in. I’ll take whatever heat may come from it. You take care of making this film more realistic.”

Monty nodded. “Alright. Give me a few hours and I’ll show you what I got.”

“Make it better. You may not get another shot if you blow this movie, Monty. Two hours,” David walked out the door, already texting away on his phone.

“Two hours, man!” he yelled from the hall.

#

Monty unlocked a drawer under his desk. Inside were dozens of cassette tapes and his handheld camera. He could feel his pulse quicken and his mouth go dry. He had sworn to keep them locked away, to abstain from his urges. What had he done? How could he possibly watch the tapes and not want to act. After Bridgette, he’d been able to contain his desires. He swore she would be the last.

He could see flashes of each murder now that he was holding his camera again. The urge was rising. He wasn’t sure he could do this alone.

He picked up his cell and called the only number saved on his phone.

“Talk to me, man.”

“Brian…I need your help. I really want to use, and it’s right in front of me.”

“Alright Monty, take a deep breath. Let’s just talk.”

 

#

Monty would rather gouge out his left eye than give another interview, even if all they wanted to do was kiss his ass and tell him how great he is. He hoped his hiding spot was good enough to avoid more talking.

He sighed when he saw who had finally found him at the bar.

“I gotta hand it to ya man, you really pulled off some Houdini shit with those added scenes. I’ll be honest with ya. I didn’t think you could pull it off.”

“I wasn’t so sure I could pull it off myself, David,” Monty shrugged.

“Those shots were amazing! Much more realistic than the original cuts. Who knew those girls could act like that!”

“Yeah…who knew?” Monty turned to the bartender and asked for another champagne.

“How’d you get ‘em?”

“It was difficult. Let’s leave it at that.” Monty wanted to kill so bad after revisiting the tapes, but was able to refrain. “Lot’s of blood, sweat and tears, I guess.”

David’s phone rang and he excused himself, much to Monty’s relief.

#

He watched the partygoers with disgust. He despised their fake laughs and found it all to be exhausting. They were all useless if you asked him.

Then he saw a young lady standing alone by the wall. She kept checking her watch and glancing around the room. She appeared uncomfortable mingling among Hollywood’s elite. He could tell she was different from the others. He had to have her.

He checked his phone, meaning to call Brian, his sponsor. No service.

Her glass of champagne was low. It was now or never.

Fuck it, he thought. He took two fresh glasses from a waiter going by and walked toward her.

“Here. Have a fresh glass. It’ll calm the nerves.”

The girl looked up and appeared startled. She put up a hand. “I don’t know. I mean, like, what if there’s a drug in it or something? You seem like a nice guy, but, no, I’m good. Thanks anyway.”

“Oh, come on. I just grabbed it from that waiter handing them out over there. I’m not a rapist. I promise. I see myself as more of a serial killer if you really must know,” Monty replied with a shrug and smirk.

“Right. Okay,” she conceded and took the champagne. “If you’re going to kill me though, do it quick. This party might kill me first.”

“Not a fan of premiere parties?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Not my thing either, but I kinda have to be here. So, I know you weren’t in the film; what brings you to the party?”

“My friend’s brother. He’s in the movie. I guess he just needed a pretty girl on his arm for the red carpet. You know, so he doesn’t look gay or something.” She took a big swig of champagne and sighed. “But after a few drinks, he kinda makes it a little obvious, don’t you think?” She pointed to a guy who kept touching the chest of another guy while laughing at what must have been the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“Well, his loss is my gain.” Monty clinked glasses and took a sip. “What did you think of the film?”

“It was good, I mean, I don’t usually see films like that, but I really enjoyed it,” she said fidgeting with her handbag.

“What do you usually like to watch?”

“Mystery, crime thrillers, I guess? Have you seen Knives Out yet?”

“No. I’ve heard it’s really good though. It got really good reviews on Rotten Tomatoes. Did you see it in a theater?”

“No, but the person I stay with was talking about it too. And then I was describing it, and he was like, ‘You went?’ and I said, ‘No, somebody told me about it,’” she looked away, avoiding eye contact. “I haven’t seen it yet.”

“You should see it. There’s a director’s viewing room here. The chairs are so nice. I love the butt warmers. They keep you nice and toasty. I’m sure I could find the film. We should get out of here and go see it,” Monty raised his glass. “My treat.”

“That’d be awesome! We should totally go do that!” A smile slowly crept across her face. “But, how are we gonna get in?”

“You just have to know the director.”

Monty took her glass and set both of their drinks on a nearby table. He took her hand and started to walk her across the room to a side door that lead to an elevator.

“You know the director?” she asked in amazement.

“Sweetheart, I am the director.” He said as he guided her through the doorway. “You’ll just die when you see the viewing room.”

#

Monty opened the door to the viewing room and flipped on the lights.

“Oh wow! It looks like a little movie theater!”

“Yup. Butt warmers and all.” Monty was unlocking another door at the back of the room.

“What’s in there?”

“This is the editing room. Should be drinks in the mini fridge. You want something?”

“Sure.”

Together, they entered the editing room. Monty went to the fridge and tossed her a beer.

The young woman began to slowly examine the components, cameras and computers. “This stuff looks pretty complicated. Do you ever use real film anymore? Or is it all digital now?” she asked, sipping her beer.

“Mostly digital, but I have a few projects I do in film still.”

She continued to snoop as Monty stepped out to set up the movie in the viewing room. The drawer under the desk had not been closed all the way. She opened it, pulled a cassette tape out and popped it into the handheld camera that was also in the drawer. She covered her mouth and gasped in horror as she watched a brutal murder unfold.

Monty had the movie set and ready to go. He glanced around the viewing room and visualized the young woman’s death scene. He envisioned her laid out in a viewing chair, choked from behind to avoid bloodshed. He’d have her face the film playing in the background. He’d call the scene: “Dying to Watch.”

His heart raced in anticipation. He needed his camera. He needed her out of the editing room. He began to wonder why she was still in there.

Monty stopped in the doorway. “Movie’s almost ready. Come pick a seat.”

The young woman was leaning back against the counter and looked nervous.

“Why don’t you come over here first?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and smirking.

Whatever gets you to leave the room, lady, he thought.

He slowly approached her.

She had a nervous energy about her that Monty mistook for sexual tension.

He leaned in with the intent to kiss her and noticed his camera out of the corner of his eye. It was on the floor at her feet. He was about say something when she grabbed his hair and he felt a sharp, cold sensation in the back of his neck. The pain and brightness derailed his thoughts. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor.

The young woman trembled as she pulled a pair of scissors out of the wound she made in the back of his neck. She had stabbed him with the scissors at the base of the skull, severing his spinal cord. He was still alive but paralyzed from the neck down. He’d be dead in a matter of minutes.

She ran from the room and screamed for help.

As he lay on the floor, unable to move, he prayed the camera lying nearby was filming. Capturing death as it left a body was pure ecstasy. He wanted nothing more than to feel invincible one last time.

His vision began to tunnel as he noticed the red light on the camera wasn’t on. His final thought was of disappointment. Disappointment that his own death hadn’t made the final cut.

==

R D Doan, a member of the Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers, most recently has had short stories appear in The Sirens Call eZine, the GLAHW anthology Marisa’s Recurring Nightmares and in the anthology, Nobody Goes Out Anymore: Futuristic Fiction Post Covid-19. As a Physician Assistant, he’s written numerous academic articles, but prefers to wade into the waters of darker fiction. He resides in West Michigan with his wife, two sons and dogs.

He can be found online on Twitter (@rd3_pac) and Instagram (@rddoan).

Fatsy Noodles

by Robert Kostanczuk

 

And so it came to be that Nan and Kix ended up at the godforsaken Destree barn.

The descent into night, the whipping rain and their frantic plight had brought them there.

As the thunder roared and rumbled outside, the partners in crime caught their breath and gathered their senses amid the sounds of rats scurrying through the hay and across patches of grain strewn across the dank Kentucky dirt.

Nan and Kix had just stolen a car.

Neither had been in any serious trouble with the law before, but crystal meth and deadly youthful boredom fueled this particularly reckless criminal escapade.

In a wave of panic, they ditched the beater vehicle in a marshy thicket that was pretty far from home.

That made for a fairly long journey by foot.

But rationality of thought was not in the cards on this volatile day.

While trekking back to their hometown, Nan and Kix had stumbled upon the deserted Destree farm, which was just a quarter mile from where they eased the swiped car into a swampy area.

The barn provided necessary shelter from a volcanic storm that worsened an already tense situation resulting from the ill-advised car heist.

“That joyride wasn’t worth it,” Kix said, shaking his head in disgust.

“Yeah, tell me about it — what a waste,” Nan concurred, trying to catch her breath. “We got a long walk back.”

Kix peeled blobs of mud off the bottom of his boots.

“Ya think anyone saw us take it?” he asked his girlfriend, bracing for a reply he didn’t want to hear.

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so,” came the best-case-scenario response.

The heavy oaken barn door that Nan and Kix had closed behind them was not staying shut in the heavy wind, which slammed it open and shut on an all-too frequent basis.

It was unsettling to the pair, who were also subjected to the unnerving sound of creaking wood that radiated from all corners of the old structure.

Sitting on a bench near the entrance, Nan and Kix huddled together, waiting for the storm to break so they could trudge back to town, and out of the mounting nightmare encompassing them.

Twilight was quickly plunging into nocturnal shackles.

“I can’t wait to get out of this hellhole,” said Kix, looking around at the sporadic lightning that lit up cracks and holes in worn walls surrounding him.

“There’s something truly weird about this place,” Nan whispered, although not quite sure why she felt the need to whisper.

She stole a sidelong glance at Kix, to see how he was holding up.

He had only two previous run-ins with police; one for disorderly conduct at a football game, and one for underage drinking at a friend’s party. Nan boasted a clean slate; she was just along with Kix for the ride, latching on to his rebellious nature, which she found invigorating in her stale, rustic life.

“It’s all gonna be all right,” she said while playfully ruffling up his wet, matted head of hair.

“I know it will,” Nan concurred.

Although beginning to feel chilled by her wet clothes, Nan was physically warmed up by her boyfriend‘s self-assured demeanor.

The sense of well-being slipped back into a state of unease as soft thuds were heard.

The hayloft appeared to be the source, and the sound increasingly resembled methodical footsteps.

Looking up, Kix and Nan couldn’t help but think they were not alone.

Remaining perfectly still for a few seconds, both were hoping it was merely Mother Nature rocking the rickety, light-starved barn, and stirring up noises.

“It’s nothing, I think,” Kix said quietly.

However, increasingly loud gurgling began wafting through the air from the upper reaches of mammoth, but rotting, overhead beams.

The teens were hearing something akin to a rippling, muddy stream. Nan wondered if it was water rushing into the barn, but the noise was coming from up above.

Kix had enough of the unwelcoming Destree property: “Looks like the weather’s let up; better get while the gettin’ is good. I never thought I’d make it onto this land. It’s as messed up as everyone said it was.”

Just before stepping outside, Nan caught sight of a slight glistening in a rear corner, near horse pens.

Swinging open the barn door for more light, Nan walked toward the glint.

A smile of recognition soon stretched across her face.

“It’s true; the Destree calliope really does exist,” Nan said with an air of wonderment.

Its columns of whistles draped in cobwebs, the wagon-mounted calliope was glazed in dull circus colors of gold, scarlet and purple.

Peering more closely, Nan honed in on the wooden housing that encased the calliope, except for sizable, oval openings on two sides of the wagon, through which the worn whistles could be seen.

Jesters, with menacing smiles, were carved at the borders of the openings.

“Let’s get out of here before it starts playing by itself,” Kix said a tinge of urgency.

Slipping onto the soggy ground of the abandoned acreage, Kix and Nan began to walk back home down Old Moon Road in the heavy humid air that replaced the rain.

Faint at first, a sour and discordant melody trailed from the rear.

As Kix and Nan moved further away from the Destree property, the mournful, dirge-like tones of the calliope grew in intensity.

Remnants of the roiled weather shot out muffled blasts of electricity in the dense, purplish heavens.

“Who’s playing that contraption? No one’s lived on the Destree farm for years,” Nan said with a perplexed shake of the head.

She and Kix sped up their walking as the calliope’s devilish presence faded with each forward step.

Home — and respite from the stolen-car fiasco — was about three miles ahead.

The roads leading there were winding, rural, and largely unlit.

Bottomland hardwood forests lined them.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have panicked; we could’ve just taken the car back instead of ditching it,” Kix said during the walk in darkness.

“It’s water under the bridge; it’s over, we’ll be OK,” offered Nan, genuinely believing that the worst was over.

She then looked behind her, out of boredom.

She thought she saw a shape — a stocky shape — silhouetted against the still agitated skies.

It was pretty far in the distance. It was rather small, and human shaped.

Nan turned back toward the front, hoping the vision would just disappear.

Peering to the rear again, Nan found that her perception was not illusionary.

Something was skittering along the high weeds and dense brush at the side of the road, and picking up speed.

Trying not to alarm Kix, Nan slowly swiveled her head to the front.

A few seconds later, she methodically looked back.

It was closer.

This time, she snapped her gaze ahead of her.

Letting a full minute pass, she warily turned her sights toward the rear again.

It was gone.

“What you lookin’ at?” Kix said, looking back himself and seeing nothing.

“I thought I saw something; it’s no big deal. Let’s stop at this convenience store. I’m dying of thirst. I need some water.”

The Take-A-Break was a figurative beacon of light for Nan — a return to normalcy at such a tumultuous time.

The boxy, ramshackle outpost glowed at an otherwise unlit four-way stop at Old Moon Road and Oakwood.

Everyday things could be bought at Take-A-Break. Pop, chips, Red Bull, warmed-over pizza slices sitting under a cheap heat lamp … it all felt like regular living to Nan. It was what she yearned for now.

Inside, a wiry, disheveled cashier eyed Nan and Kix as they got a couple bottles of water and brought it to the checkout counter.

“Will this be it?” asked the worker.

“Yep,” Kix said, digging money out of his jeans.

“You guys look like you’ve been through a lot tonight; you’re kinda wet and dirty,” the cashier said while taking the dollar bills.

Nan proceeded to tell him much more than she really wanted to, relating how they had got caught in a storm while out for a long walk, and were forced to take cover in a dirty barn along the side of a road.

“Oh, you must be talking about the ol’ Destree farm,” said the worker, his eyes lighting up in recognition. “By the way, they call me Slick the Stickman, ’cause I’m pretty resourceful, and tall and skinny.”

A smile stretched across Slick’s weathered face that was peppered with the beginnings of a silver and black beard.

His eyes danced with energy, while the auto-mechanic jumpsuit he donned spoke of everyman relatability.

Because it was on an outskirts of town where there was little but agricultural activity, Take-A-Break had been a sporadic stop in the past for Nan and Kix, so they were unfamiliar with the colorful Slick.

Before they could begin to pay for the water, the pair took in some history of the Destree land, courtesy of a talkative Slick.

“An odd, twisted little girl once lived there,” he said while aimlessly running his hand through his thick, greasy and flowing locks of hair.

“Her name was Madison, but she was known as Madsy,” Slick continued. “Over time, that turned into Fatsy. Actually, the mean kids had a complete name for her: Fatsy Noodles.

Nan giggled.

“Actually, she wasn’t very funny,” Slick quickly shot back in a corrective, but patient, tone. “Fatsy Noodles was, in truth, pretty creepy. And probably pretty deadly.”

Slick, who had been standing, pulled up a stool, and sat down, and settled in behind the counter.

* * *

“Fatsy was always different, even when she was just 4, 5. But when she hit 14, 15 — she hit her stride, let’s put it that way,” Slick smiled slyly.

He went on to weave the story.

Nan and Kix sat down on a couple of stacks of 24-can cases of Coke.

They heard Slick explain that Fatsy never was really fat, just “big boned” and maybe a bit more muscular than girls her age around the county.

“I think you could call her a fireplug; ya know, a bit short and stocky. They say she was just 5 feet and 1 inch when she left high school, and sort of went into seclusion and became just a mysterious living thing.”

Madsy Destree really only left her family farm to do harm, Slick related.

As the legend went, she particularly enjoyed exacting revenge on those who had taunted her in elementary school and high school.

“Picture this,” Slick urged, making sure he kept eye contact with his small, captive audience.

The descriptive narrative unraveled as if it were being told around a campfire, in the moonless gloom, on Halloween.

The only child of Clemson and Gertrude Destree was always an outsider; a loner.

She wore her pigtails thick and full, draping them over the front of her shoulders.

Madsy kept to herself; didn’t have many friends.

“Her first childhood friend became a turncoat; Melissa Gyner saddled her with the reputation of being heavy,” Slick related. “Melissa even made up a rhyme: ‘Fatsy Noodles ate some poodles.’ That was around when she and Madsy were both in first or second grade.”

Nan repeated the quirky name: “Fatsy Noodles — sounds like a dumb cartoon.”

Slick had a quick retort: “She sure was no comic. Fatsy didn’t just idly by and let people dump on her.”

Melissa paid the price with ravaging puncture marks, one on the top of her right forearm, the other on the underside, Kix and Nan were told.

“The wounds got infected; Melissa almost lost her arm,” said Slick, taking a bite of an apple, then putting it down.

“Ya ever see an alligator snapping turtle?” Slick asked.

“Don’t think so,” Kix replied.

“Nope,” Nan answered definitively.

Slick detailed how that kind of turtle basically has “a one-fanged upper jaw and a one-fanged lower jaw that snaps and pierces.”

He added that, as the story goes, Fatsy had a tightly drawn, and compacted mouth that was able to violently spring open into a gaping, gruesome yowl.

“She was supernatural; that’s the only way to explain it. She’s a ghost, and ghosts apparently can bite, can’t they?”

Nan and Kix looked at each other, and smirked.

“Maybe she could bite, but she also sucked,” Kix chortled.

Slick dismissed the mockery, deciding, instead, to proceed.

“As long as you’re laughing, you’d probably laugh at the fact that Fatsy kinda waddled when she walked,” he related. “But when you saw that bizarre walk heading for you, it wasn’t so funny. She really was an it, not human — something demonic.”

Slick felt it was time to summarize the saga and wrap things up.

“Fatsy disappeared about 75 years ago. She left the farm as a young adult, and never returned. There were newspaper articles that she made it out to the West Coast, that she was seen walking out into heavy surf on some California beach, and was never seen again. Authorities reported it was a stormy, turbulent day. It’s assumed she drowned. Her body was never found. She might have died in her late teens or early 20s. Who knows?”

Nan couldn’t help but wonder just how “supernatural” this Fatsy really was.

“So, how many people did she bite?”

Slick chuckled.

“Well, legend has it she bit quite a few, and sometime gargled with their blood. It’s not only about how much she bit, but who she killed.”

Leaning toward Nan and Kix, Slick whispered his next sentence for dramatic effect: “You see, there’s pretty strong evidence she murdered two, three — maybe five six people, including a couple of drifters who wandered into this sleepy, forgotten corner of Kentucky.”

Nan was sucked into vortex of rural folklore that spun with wild allure and endless questions.

“Why the murders? Why the killing?”

Slick explained the slayings were always about retribution for perceived personal harm.

“She’d follow; she’d stalk; she’d get her man — or woman, or boy, or girl — whatever the case might be. She’d appear out of nowhere; striding forcefully toward her victim; pigtails pressed against the front of her shabby dress; mouth slowly opening … then, agape.

“If people looked at her the wrong way because of the way she looked, Fatsy would exact revenge. There’s a story about her tracking down and killing an old woman who kept staring at her in a grocery store. The woman’s body was found with bite marks — punctures — all over her face.”

For the slightest moment, Nan considered the possibility that it was Fatsy who trailed her and Kix on the way to Take-A-Break.

But the surreal yarn which the convenience worker spun seemed such a fantasy, that it actually put her mind at ease about there being any chance the demon girl was, indeed, the follower.

She and Kix grabbed their bottled water and began walking out of the Take-A-Break, heading back to Old Moon Road.

“Thanks for the tale; it’s interesting,” said Kix, giving a flick of his hand to wave goodbye.

“I think it’s more than just a tale,” Slick grinned.

* * *

Out in the dense, muggy atmosphere again, Nan and Kix quickly gulped their water and tossed the bottles away.

Refueled, they both discussed how this horrid little episode which entangled them, was about to end.

Home was just a mile away.

Immediately to the left, the fairy-tale residence of Widow Kyefsky rose above them, outlined against vibrantly endless and cosmic skies.

An ornate mishmash of Queen Anne and Victorian architecture, the mansion fit the otherworldly leanings of Lady Kyefsky, who was strongly rumored to be a witch.

She was standing out front, at the beginning of her winding walkway, which cut through a massive wild garden of overgrown grass, burgeoning bushes, fiery flowers and assorted vegetation.

She waved at Nan and Kix to come near.

They didn’t want to, knowing her reputation among the locals as a crazy eccentric.

For the flash of a second, Kix considered tugging Nan’s arm and leading her to the other side of the road.

But he opted to gut it out and directly pass by her.

“Come! Hurry! You’ve been followed here. Get off the road!” Kyefsky prattled, while simultaneously motioning for the two youths to move up the passageway leading to her home.

“Who’s following us?” Nan asked incredulously, conveying a hint of fear.

“Something ungodly. Something dangerous,” came the response.

Kyefsky ushered Nan and Kix along by successively placing her hand on the right shoulder of each, and then firmly steering them up the uneven stone path.

They moved, she followed behind, giving gentle nudges to the small of their backs to provide them with a sense of urgency.

Kix found himself inexorably following the old woman’s directive, as did Nan.

Neither knew exactly why they were so compliant.

As she was hurriedly prodded along toward the looming, arched doorway of Kyefsky’s house, Nan wondered to herself if this creepy lady did, indeed, have mind-controlling capabilities.

“How do you know we were being followed?” asked Nan, not looking back in the direction of Kyefsky.

The answer to the question came with firm assuredness: “I have certain powers, dear. And I very much know this thing that is after you.”

Swinging open her heavy, oaken front door, Kyefsky led her two charges inside to a foyer where crimson stained-glass windows loomed up above.

Taking a quick look outside before closing the entrance, she made a pronouncement with a discernible air of relief: “No sign of the ghoul.”

Nan had the overwhelming sensation of being locked in; shut off from the outside world.

It was so quick, she didn’t know how it happened.

Kyefsky ushered her visitors to a side parlor. The room was dimly lit, with clutter that included old books, herbs in bottles and burning candles.

“Fatsy Noodles is after you. She is angry. You invaded her space at the barn; I know all this because I have the help of that,” said Kyefsky, pointing to a crystal ball on a rough-hewn wooden table.

“Sorry, lady, I don’t know you,” Kix said in a hybrid tone of  annoyance and fright.

Kyefsky grew silent for a few seconds, curiously looking over the two disheveled young people, as if assessing exactly what kind of naïve innocents she had standing before her.

“Believe what you like. You can stay with me for safety or go back out there. You decide.”

The ultimatum resonated with Nan.

She was in no mood to venture outside, just yet.

Besides, it could be fun checking out the spooky old house, she thought.

“Come up to my little nook; it’s safe there, follow me,” said Kyefsky, sensing the youths were acquiescing.

Kix just smiled in bewilderment. The situation was reeling in Nan and him.

Kyefsky guided the pair to a wooden, spiral staircase with large knots in the surface of the wooden boards.

She informed them the twisting steps led up to one of the two turrets in her home.

She tried to stay calm and orderly, but wore down and spoke with urgency: “Come, hurry, climb the steps.”

Kix and Nan followed Kyefsky up to the turret as their footsteps made the staircase creak and crackle with shards of sound.

The witchy woman spoke before opening the door to their place of refuge.

“The car you stole belongs to a distant relative of Fatsy’s. The bloodline definitely is connected. She doesn’t like that you stole the car. She doesn’t like you were in her barn.”

Kix and Nan were jolted by Widow Kyefsky’s knowledge of the swiped vehicle.

“You might be right about the car; I’m not saying you are. But how do you know about it?” Kix said with piercing curiosity.

“I have powers,” Kyefsky said, as she swung open the turret door in front of her.

Kix needed to crouch down a bit to enter through the low doorway.

Inside the cylindrical room, he and Nan quickly took stock of their surroundings.

Windows surrounded all sides of the lofty space, which burned with the soft glow of evenly spaced candles lining the circular wall.

Walking along sturdy oak floorboards to the front of the turret, Kix and Nan gazed down, and saw a car parked in the street.

It was situated so that its headlights — its bright beams — blazed directly toward the front door and up the walkway.

Though it was difficult see details of the vehicle, Nan believed there was caked-on mud along the bottom edges.

She felt she was looking at the well-traveled, four-door Buick sedan from the 1990s that Kix and her had swiped and dumped in the mucky bottomland hardwood forest, rimmed with cypress trees.

“That’s the car we stole,” she whispered to her mate.

Kix merely stared in stunned confusion at the vehicle.

Then, he spoke: “I don’t know what’s goin’ on here.”

Kyefsky had descended the staircase while Kix and Nan were distracted by the bizarre sight in the world below the windows.

Rustling, commotion then wafted up through the open door of their lofty room.

“Let me go!” came a scream from down below.

It was Kyefsky.

Fatsy’s bite had dug into Kyefsky’s left arm at the foot of the staircase.

“Oh, it hurts! Oh, it hurts!” she whimpered with chilling emotion.

Kix and Nan shuddered at the wailing that reverberated up to them.

Peering down to the bottom of the stairwell, they watched a shadowy figure slowly ascending.

Then it became clear to the pair that it was a dazed Kyefsky making her way up.

She used her right hand to painstakingly pull herself along.

When she finally stood before Kix and Nan, Kyefsky rolled up the left sleeve of her billowy blouse to reveal ugly wounds.

The top of her forearm had a puncture wound that oozed blood.

On the exact opposite side of her arm was another puncture wound that also bled, on the underside.

“Who … what bites like that?” Kix blurted in dizzying wonderment.

“She bites like an animal … she may still be my house! I don’t know where she is!” Kyefsky cried. “I fought her off. I fought her off. But I don’t think she wanted to kill me. She could have killed me if she wanted to.”

The words were delivered breathlessly, but with clarity and an increasing sense of composure.

For a few seconds, Kyefsky stood silently with Kix and Nan in an attempt to hear any noises or movements that would indicate the stalker was still present down below.

There was one slight bumping sound, followed by what resembled faint shuffling along the floor.

Kix finally spoke … in a whisper.

“Why should we be afraid of her? Does she have some sort of super power?”

Kyefsky, who was calming down, answered.

“I don’t know if she’s from another world. All I know is that she’s not right — and is terrifying.”

The need to get Kyefsky to a hospital for her bite wound forced the trio-in-hiding to venture down the stairs.

Kix led the way, mentally stoking his bravado in the event he had to punch the ungodly thing.

At the foot of the stairs, the trio stopped and scanned the darkened home.

A grandfather clock along a hallway ticked with a mesmerizing cadence.

There was no sign of the attacker.

Slowly, the three comrades made their way to the front of the house to see if the stolen car was still out front.

On the way, a shuffling noise was heard in a hallway closet which had its door slightly ajar.

Nan began to walk backwards.

Her senses were on high alert. Acute focus came into play like never before.

A flash of black darted from the closet, along the floor.

“Pluto!” Kyefsky blurted with a sense of relief.

It was her cat.

Kix and Nan laughed at the absurdity of the surreal situation engulfing them.

The low hum of a running car engine then seeped into Nan’s awareness.

It was the stolen Buick, still pointed at the house, but this time the headlights were off.

No one appeared to be inside.

“The keys must be in the car; I have an idea,” she told Kix.

Her plan was to hop in the car and return it to the house where it was stolen — leave it parked on the street in front of the residence, and then run like hell.

“Let’s make amends,” Nan said, squeezing her boyfriend’s arm for emotional support.

“OK,” Kix confirmed. “That works. I just want to make sure that freak isn’t in the car, or around it.”

As Kix and Nan edged toward the vehicle, Kyefsky went to the bathroom and wrapped her wounded arm in gauze, with plans to drive herself to the hospital.

She had always prided herself in being self-sufficient.

The bizarre and rattling experiences which had just descended would not force her to deviate from that characteristic.

“You guys gonna be OK going home?” she asked her unexpected visitors after emerging from the bathroom with her wounded armed covered.

“Yeah, we’re leaving. We might take that car — or we’ll walk. Just depends,” Kix answered.

Kyefsky headed to the rear of her home, where the garage stood.

She never made it.

A crushing bite to the neck sent her into shock, and brought death almost immediately as blood gushed on the rain-soaked grass.

At the same time, Kix and Nan peered into the Buick from a cautious distance away.

Then, they methodically walked around the vehicle to see if anyone — or anything — was in hiding.

All seemed quiet.

“I don’t know about getting in,” Kix said as he shook his head with uncertainty.

“It’s now or never,” shot back Nan, opening the passenger-side door.

Inspired by his girlfriend’s moxie, Kix jumped into the driver’s seat.

He immediately noticed the car’s charged atmosphere.

It emitted a crackle, a heightened air.

Sitting still for a few seconds to survey the surroundings, Kix and Nan realized this was make-or-break time.

Then, Kix placed the car in drive and headed down Old Moon Road.

* * *

“Man, I will never forget this night,” said Nan, peering straight ahead into the humid, hazy darkness.

Kix merely smirked at the pure nuttiness of it all.

“I just wanna drop this sucker off, and right a wrong, and get on with our lives again — in a normal way,” he intoned, giving Nan’s left knee a loving squeeze.

Kix wasn’t so sure his frame of mind would ever be totally returned to its original, carefree state, but he believed in the joint power of Nan and himself to weather any storm.

Nearing the ramshackle home from where the car was stolen, Kix noticed no lights were on in the house.

That was a good sign. It was late; the folks there must be in bed, Kix thought to himself.

With only a lone, corner streetlight providing sparse light down the block, Kix pulled the Buick up at the curb in front of the house.

Kix and Nan deftly and quietly closed the car doors.

They inched away, looking back at the vehicle just once.

Unbeknownst to them, a child was watching their arrival and departure from a front, anterior window of an adjoining house.

Berenice gazed with innocent curiosity as Kix and Nan, hand-in-hand, ambled away, while the trunk of the Buick Skylark lifted open ever so slowly.

A small figure crawled out of the trunk.

Totally catching the attention of the 8-year-old Berenice, the youngster plopped the chocolate ice cream cone she was eating on the window sill.

She normally wouldn’t have been up so late, but her birthday celebration had been extended by several hours.

Wiping her sticky hands on her pajamas, Berenice looked on as the mysterious being carefully rearranged pigtails.

They were moved from her back to the front of her bib overalls.

Berenice then saw a silhouette of the visitor with mouth agape.

Next came methodical movement as the presence in front of Berenice started to take steps, following Kix and Nan.

The steps gradually quickened.

Berenice giggled; whoever she was watching managed to put on a little show by ambling along like a duck.

 

==

Robert Kostanczuk is a former full-time entertainment/features reporter for the Post-Tribune daily newspaper of northwest Indiana.

He won first place for “Best Personality Profile” in a 1992 competition sponsored by the Society of Professional Journalists, Indianapolis chapter.

His fiction piece “Safe Haven for Nathan” was published in “Homicide Lullabies: A Collection of Adult Horror Stories” (2016: Severance Publications Ltd.).

Robert’s horror-themed “I Eat Anything” was included in “Shocking Stories” (2018), a collection from Rainfall Publishing Company of the United Kingdom.

His short story “Frozen Burial” was published in 2019 by The Horror Zine, a print — and online — magazine.

Also in 2019, his beastly yarn, “A Stirring in the Woodland,” was published by Schlock! Webzine of the United Kingdom.

Robert’s “Lizzie Borden Versus Belle Gunness” appeared in the Spring 2020 issue of Suspense Magazine.

Robert lives in Crown Point, Indiana.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before the Gingerbread Stales

by Matt Athanasiou

 

The gingerbread man cooled on a wax sheet. Georgia’s thumb skimmed over the scissors she had cut wrapping paper with. A snip-snip, and tlick-tlick would go the little man’s arms and legs on the tabletop—but it was just gingerbread, of no harm to her like real men. She reached for the frosting instead.

Yellow hair, green sweater, tan pants, chocolate chip eyes, red hot candies for a smile and, pinched between her fingers, Georgia snugged a candy heart into the gingerbread man’s shirt. She hoped the historical article in that Christmas Wishes catalogue was right, about English women eating gingerbread men for luck in finding a loving man—a man who never borrowed Georgia’s car without asking, who never slept with her friends. Santa failed every year to bring her a gentleman so sweet he smelled of cooked sugar, his skin honey-glazed, breath peppermint, tongue vanilla, a man she could call delectable.

She kissed her fingertip, tapped it to the candy heart—an extra touch of tenderness couldn’t hurt her chances—before devouring the cookie.

It took a week to meet her gentleman, although his hair was thin, more brown than golden, and his sweaters, pilled and baggy, were thrift-shop compared to the gingerbread man’s. Still, she would discover that he had a heart; she baked it in the oven the following week.

The afternoon they met was pleasant enough. The metro station was crowded, and she caught him with his hand in her purse. She cinched the bag’s straps around his wrist. First thought: struggle, scream for help, and shove him in front of an oncoming train. Second thought: lucky her. They shared smiles, and then a plate of fries at Sweet’s Salty Diner on his, Max’s, dime; he was a pickpocket but proficient, he claimed. Everyone had faults, and Georgia and Max were making do with what they had.

She bailed him out of jail the next night. He had been caught in the same station, only the officer didn’t ask him out for dinner. Max repaid Georgia, a chivalrous act, but went home sullen afterwards. He’d be fine tomorrow, she thought and imagined handcuffing herself to him.

On the third day, he didn’t appreciate her request to avoid stealing from that station; it was where they met, should be special to them, she insisted. He argued she would soon tell him not to filch from other women’s purses, to change altogether. With chapped lips like chewed red hot candies, he spat red hot curses at her about piggish cheeks, broad thighs, cloudy eyes. She shut him up with a kiss. In bed, he repeatedly told her to stop biting. She was nibbling to find his sweet core.

Evenings passed with calls unanswered. She worried another woman had stolen him away; she envisioned stabbing the woman and forcing Max to watch the hussy’s bitterness hemorrhage. But on a snowy dusk, he arrived at her door with a bloodied forehead. His chocolate eyes were lost in swollen, bruised flesh. She massaged his calloused hands, stared at those hardened, discolored knuckles. No questions were asked as she walked him to the bedroom.

Naughty had been his word to describe the bronze Christmas lights she tied him to the bed with. A not-very-nice name had been his word to describe her waving the ice pick and scissors, her making do with what she had. The sweetness inside of him was spoiling, and she yearned for a saccharine taste before he staled.

 

==

Matt Athanasiou’s writing has received honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest, and has appeared in publications such as Remastered Words, Flame Tree Press, and Gallows Hill Magazine. Find more of his work at mattathanasiou.com.

Tick Tock Goes the Clock

by Lisa Brand

Every passing day I notice my eyes drifting to the clock. I want it to be another hour, another day, just not the time it is now. Humans are impatient like that, I suppose. We wish to control time. We all have wanted to control time at some point in our lives. Whether it is to change the past to remove an embarrassing moment or to perhaps just to make more time for other people, we want to control it, but we can’t control what we’ve created. It runs everyone’s lives and we can’t do a single thing about it. Ironic, it seems that one of man’s greatest inventions is now something entirely above us, controlling all of us. It tells you when to get out of bed, go to work, time has even set boundaries on when we can and can’t do certain things. Like maybe I want to eat some pizza in the morning, why is it frowned upon? It’s scary, and you can’t fight back or try to rebel in anyway. For even if you do fight it, you’ll fall behind in your own future because time waits for no one here.  You just have to live with it.

Now, I know time isn’t alive. That’s preposterous thinking if I thought otherwise. And if I am allowed to be honest, I wouldn’t mind this immortal idea controlling every second of my life. I would really just love to go with the flow and motion of time like everyone else. I just don’t understand why it has to make that god damn noise. It’s so loud and it makes it difficult to think. Why why why, does it have to be like this, what did I do to deserve this harsh, unbearable noise! It is constant, and has been going on for months. I do not know the exact moment where it started, but all I know is that it will not stop, and it is only getting louder. I’m always paranoid. The only time I’m able to sleep now is when my brain forces me to pass out, due to the exhaustion of not sleeping for days.

Every passing day I live, I am controlled by the sound of the clock. I hear it almost every second of everyday; it’s running my life. At school, home, almost everywhere I go. Time is my greatest fear, and I just continue to let rule over me. But why why why! I would have been more open to it, more understanding, if it didn’t have that noise; that dreaded tick tock tick tock! It comes from the clocks, all of them. I leave one room to escape it and yet another one is always there to take its place. It drives me insane. I don’t know how I live through it. It has been months, it mocks me and I just want it to shut up. I don’t know how much longer I can live through it.

The months go by, but it just seems to be getting louder. It is messing with my thoughts. There are some days where all I can do is sit and listen to what the ticking is telling me to do. It sounds crazy, I know, I know, but I don’t know how else to describe it.  The ticks, the rhythm, it forms words and I know not to listen to it but, I just want it to stop, please let it stop. My mind is trying to keep me in the right, but I can’t understand it, time takes over everything I do. Right now I sit in my room, I try to ignore the ticking, and I try to focus on the things in my room. The soft curtains over the bedroom window, the sheets beneath me that keep me warm. There is also the lamp, turned off for now as I am suppose to be asleep.  My eyes fall upon a pocket knife, and I cannot seem to look away. Honestly, it is a beautiful design, the brand has long been warned away, but the blade itself is still good. It is still sharp, the blade cold. I pick it up and let the dull side of the blade slide through my fingers. It is a very, relaxing moment for me, but then I hear it again.

The ticking

Taking over my thoughts

Tick tock

My world.

Tick tock

Everything.

I instantly look over to the clock sitting on the bedside table. That evil clock, I am not going to let it control me like this anymore. I get off of my bed and stand over it, this is the end. I pick it up, taking a second to listen to the ticking before slamming it into the ground over and over again until it was completely destroyed. But time will never die. It is the immortal creature of the universe. I continue to look at the broken clock and can’t help but sigh. You can never beat time, it is just there, never to leave.  Putting the knife in my pocket, I walk into my living room and look to my parents watching the television. Amazing, how can they not hear it? The clock is right above the television! It’s so loud, louder than the T.V. And they are just sitting there like nothing is happening!

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I quickly move to the clock, grabbing it off the wall.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

A large crash, a loud scream, but the ticking is still louder!

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Then silence.

The ticking had stopped when the last thud was heard on the ground. Finally free from that dreadful noise, I sit on the couch and watch the television. Blood starts seeping in my clothing and I can only smile at the warmth of it, it feels so nice. The misery and insanity that was slowly taking over me is now gone, and I find myself laughing in relief. I don’t remember the last time I was this happy, I lie down on the blood stained couch and close my eyes, letting the voices from the T.V cast me off into a deep sleep.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I suddenly jolt awake from my sleep. No, out of all the things to be awaked from, it had to be the clock. I sit up and look around the room, nothing had changed, my parents lay on the floor, pools of blood have formed underneath them and I could only sigh. My eyes then proceeded to drift to the clock; the hands that use to tell the time already were ripped out. There is no time here.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Once placed on the highest place in the room, it now stands beneath me, unable to control me. Time is not above me though. It is not even real! It’s an illusion made by man to control them. Every day of my life I lived by this illusion, but then it made a mistake; it tried to talk to me, and then I was able to break free from its control. It keeps trying to take me back, but I will continue to fight.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

But yet, it continues still.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It wasn’t enough! I have to do this more! I will destroy it.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It is still ticking. Time does not die without a fight. Why doesn’t time just die! I will not let this discourage me. I will not let time stop me on my quest. I will continue to stop time. I take a glance over to my parent’s bodies. But I cannot do this while running from the law. My parents were fools for trying to stop me. They deserve what they got, and honestly, they would only get in my way later on. I did the right thing. My health and well being is more important, that’s what they said. So this was only bound to happen.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tick.

I’m shaking, I can’t tell if it’s from fear or excitement. I go to the kitchen and grab a box of matches from the pantry, looking around, I take what I can, papers, clothes, gasoline I found in the garage, the usually and place it in a large pile on top of my parents. After soaking it in the gasoline, I drop multiple matches onto the pile and light the pile on fire. Satisfied with my work, I head outside to watch the fire burn.

I now stand outside of my house; the flames grow larger and larger, engulfing the house. I suppose most people would be worried, but I can only smile. I have silenced the ticking, and now I know how to keep it from starting again. I brush my hand over the pocket that contains my knife, grinning ear to ear. I don’t care what you say, I am above time, and I plan to keep it that way.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

==

Lisa Brand is a recent graduate at Cal State Channel Islands University. While she tries to write every moment of her free time, she has found a passion for book editing and helping other people improve their own writing and hopes to make a career out of it one day. She has been published three times previously and hopes to continue to on this path and eventually publish a full length novel. She currently resides in Southern California, and has no intention of leaving if she can help it.