Twisted Appetites

By Lauren Schwark, Jr

Twisted Appetites is an intense collection of thirty-five short stories covering many genres. From zombies, vampires, ghosts, mummies and werewolves to things that go bump in the night, there is something for everyone. Let your imagination build as the stories grow into chilling suspense and thrills. Experience a new twist of fear, the undead, hauntings, the paranormal and the criminally insane. These original horror and suspense stories will keep you entertained long into the night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lauren Schwark, Jr
• Release date: Oct 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301996407

Lauren Schwark, Jr

Born and raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

Book preview

HORROR 101

Jack-O-Lantern

Halloween. Time for the yearly festivals of corn mazes and children running around in costumes asking for candy. With some offering a treat in exchange. Over the years, Dave Thomson grew to enjoy this holiday more than any other. It was a time he could express himself in ways that might seem weird to others. Yes, he was a strange individual, but on the last day of October, he felt at one with the costumed hooligans that ran amuck in the neighborhoods. Dave, with his throwback nerd outfits, fitting in for one day a year. He was an outcast, always was. Teased and ridiculed, by one individual in particular, throughout his whole life. This year would be different. He finally came to terms with who he was and what he needed to do. This was his day. Twenty-four hours in which he wouldn't be laughed at.

The perfect Jack-o-Lantern. An object of awe in his tiny suburban neighborhood. The contest proved who was the most creative and placed its winner upon a pedestal. People would talk for weeks about him afterward. Silly, really, when you think about, it but in a small town like this, nothing is silly. The town would gain national press for some of the creative works that came forth from their residents. Attention that Dave would anoint as only his after he had won the blue ribbon. There was no question about it in his mind. It was his to win this year. No one could even come close to the design concept that he had generated. This year, Dave would outdo himself. No more second-best. No longer, Well, you still have next year, you loser. This year would be different. This year would be great. No more laughing. Tim would not take first place as he always did with everything.

Dave handpicked the prize object to be carved, watched it grow all year. It would be the largest of the bunch. Hell, it was the largest in the whole town. It wasn’t just the size but also its shape, perfectly round and juicy. No flaws and it came with the others in a nice package deal. Everyone would come from miles to see it, he mumbled to himself when he finally procured it, cutting it free from its thick stalk. Quietly in the night, he took it, along with the others, which cut free so nicely, leaving little mess. Making sure not to mar their surfaces. It would be in all the newspapers. The smaller ones used to adorn the larger centerpiece. The grand prize perched atop a pedestal overlooking all others. The looks on his neighbors’ faces when he pulled the cover off. They would be the ones laughed at this year. Their tired old jack-o-lanterns belonged in a different class. Amateurs.

He took great care in preparing his lantern. Keeping it cool as he worked on it, but not too cold. He did not want discoloration. He sharpened his carving tools, now so sharp he could shave the closest of hairs off his arm. He did just that out of curiosity, to test the tools.

The laughing at his past failures. This town did not know art. They could not grasp his conceptualism. This year, he chose the classic design. Carve away at the outer shell; not too deeply; he needed the rich color just beneath the rind for contrast.

Dave was giddy while he worked, like a small child working on an art project. Not from his childhood, though. Someone else’s. A happier child in a happier place. He pushed the tip ever so slightly through the outer husk, just enough to etch a design that he peeled away. It was a frightened cat with its hair standing on end. Dave had had a cat once. Tim the bully was scratched by it when they were kids after he shook it and yelled at it. Dave never saw his cat again. Oh Tim, you were always such a fat-headed dum-dum, Dave said aloud. Taking everything that was rightfully mine.

He worked next on tree carvings and a few ghosts. The liquid beneath the rind ran down a bit after he peeled the skin away, but a wipe of the thumb easily cleaned it up.

The innards came next. Too much anticipation, excitement, over the designs on the outside, Dave clean forgot the insides. This was the most important part. He was always forgetting. Absent-minded or neglectful, as his wife said in the divorce papers. He hummed a tune while he carved a wide circle around the top. The blade on the Dremel bogged down as he completed the last cut. Dave had mighty, large hands, and he needed the extra-wide opening to accommodate those giant paws. Accommodate, much as Tim accommodated his wife. Tim was even nice enough to drive her to court, in Dave’s car. Well, her car as it turned out, after the proceedings.

Dave scooped out the innards of his jack-o-lantern with a smile. They were very messy, messy indeed. Her white knight had turned into the prince of pain. Dave would see her bruises when they crossed paths at the grocery, the same store where she would remind him of the restraining order.

These innards just don't want to come out of this one. Dave continued to talk to himself while he worked. He kept thinking of first-prize ribbons being pinned to his table or, better yet, upon his lapel. No one would laugh at a winner. He would have his moment. His chance to not be the loser.

After the cavity was empty, he pulled out his paring knife and cut out the eyeholes. These would be what captured everyone’s attention. The candles he would use burned a beautiful, rich blue, thanks to the metallic dust he’d mixed in with the wax. Everyone would be in awe. No one would be laughing.

Dave laughed. He thought back to the athletic Tim, who always got the girl he wanted, even Dave’s. He thought of the now-very-obese Tim with the large round head, who had won last year's competition with Dave’s wife clinging to his arm. She's the one who pointed at my artistic expression and got everyone else to start laughing. Watched as Tim grew in size all year. Well, not this year, Tim. I picked the best pumpkin this year. I didn’t trace any carvings, either. You can tell I freehanded everything. There are extra points for that. Dave mumbled to himself as he tested the candles inside. Now it was complete. The other jack-o-lanterns that he would use to accentuate his masterpiece he kept simple. One medium and two small. Just the basic eye, nose and mouth holes. Even the candles inside them were basic, small, white ones.

Dave slept little that night. The noises of the neighborhood rang inside his ears, lulling him in and out of sleep. The police car sirens serenading, the ambulances blaring, car stereos booming inside rattling MOPARs from the ‘70s. Images of his display placed upon a piece of plywood, inside the garage, covered by a sheet, painted his memory. He dreamt of giant, sinuous blue ribbons he could dance with as he poked his finger into everyone’s faces in triumph.

I'm the best now. Nobody’s ever gonna laugh at me again, Dave grumbled as sirens blasted outside.

The next day, Halloween, finally came. Dave carefully loaded his jack-o-lantern display into the bed of his pickup truck, being careful not to uncover it for fear that a neighbor would steal his idea. That would mean fewer points for originality, he commented out loud, knowing the lanterns he procured were one of a kind.

The drive was slow, as Dave was extra-careful to not damage his display. He knew he would be the first one there. First…a word he liked today, for once. He selected the big table to set up on. The first table. They won't even need to look at any others. Last year, he had had the last table. Tim’s two kids spent the whole afternoon throwing things at him. Just like their father, round-headed dum-dums every one of them.

The populace filtered in and soon the place was full. It was time to begin. Butterflies filled Dave’s stomach. A crowd gathered as he pulled the sheet from the best jack-o-lantern set in the whole place, the whole world. The noisy crowd fell silent. Then the murmurs began. Someone screamed in the background and chaos erupted. The judges threw their hands into the air in their bid to be one of the first to run out of the building. Drifting slowly downwards was the blue first-place ribbon, which landed upon Dave's project. A tear came to his eye. He was first. No one was laughing.

He waited for the place to finish emptying, picked up the prize ribbon, and pinned it loosely to his chest. He proudly grabbed his jack-o-lantern display and carried it back outside. The flashes of blue and red took over all his senses. The sirens singing once more as they had the day before. Officers rushing forward towards Dave. This was his day. He was number one. The blue ribbon caught itself on a breeze, but Dave was faster than the wind. He caught it by dropping his project to the ground. The screams and yelling didn’t faze him as he pinned the large blue Number One to his shoulder. The eyes of the crowd looked on in awe. Yes, this was his day.

The police rushed at and tackled Dave, pinning him to the wet, leafy fall ground. As they wrestled his arms behind him, barking commands, the only thing he could see was his project, the faces of his lanterns looking at him from where the display rested on the ground. It was the first time Dave ever saw Tim, his ex-wife, and the two boys look and smile at him at the same time.

Jack in the Box

A person grows up and eventually they reach an age where simple toys are no longer fun to play with. Their mind needs a challenge, to expand, and more complex interactions to fill the thirst for knowledge.

Growing up poor, there wasn’t much to be had in my life. Living on the east side, with a family of six in an efficiency apartment, only hand-me-downs from my older brothers ever came my way. My father worked hard to give us the basics in life. Food and shelter, with toys being scarce in my household. The life of a traveling salesman, my mother always said with resignation. My mind only knew the four walls and the immediate concrete jungle that surrounded my life. It was during this time I would pray for someone to come into my life to be my friend, listen when I spoke, and to be there when I needed someone to play with.

It was on the Christmas of my fifth year in which I was given the simplest of toys, one which had not been passed through the family. Dad had picked it up in Louisiana on a pass-through. The price was right and it caught his eye. A square box about eight inches in height, colorfully painted with circus cars. A tiny metal handle protruded from the right side and, when spun clockwise, it played a distorted, creaky version of Pop Goes the Weasel. After three cranks, the top lid popped up and a clown on a spring jumped out. I loved it immediately, and would sit for hours turning the handle in anticipation of that smiling clown coming to visit me. My prayers had been answered.

In a way, it was as if a new friend had come into my life. Timmy was his name. We traveled everywhere together. Soda shop, the park, and even at dinnertime, he would rest by my feet while I ate.

It was soon after I had turned eight when my mother got the phone call, that call of death every salesman’s wife fears. Dad had been killed in a car accident while traveling through Maine. It was at this moment Timmy became the outlet for my sorrow. I promise I will never leave you, Timmy, I told him every night before bed. The year that followed had us moving to an even poorer part of town. My life took a bad turn. The new neighborhood kids were viciously mean and school became Hell. I confided in Timmy. Timmy listened; he was always there as a sort of comforter.

What was a comfort would soon turn into a lifelong bond. A bond that, even at twenty-seven, still eats away at my soul. You see, evil comes in many forms. Some evil is always there and around, while true evil must be awoken. Given life by its master, and once released into the world will consume all it can to quench the thirst it has of total chaos, total havoc, to be that which it is...total evil. I do not know if I was the creator or its master, but I do know I woke it up.

Someone had answered my prayers. Timmy would enter my life that year in a way I wish he had not, or maybe deep down I wished he had. A seeker of vengeance, bent on protecting me or protecting its place in the world created by a little boy. For it was a simple toy, a Jack-in-the-Box.

The first incident that caught my attention happened my second week in my new school. The class bully had me targeted since day one of my tenure. Lunch money would be paid out and in exchange I would be safe for a day. This would happen until I didn’t have any money to give and then a brutal beating would take its place. The latter would happen more often than the former. This mugging occurred right on schedule every day, a bloody nose and torn shirt the end result almost every time from this not-so-chance meeting.

I would walk home slowly, trying to stop the bleeding, worried about what my mother would think of my shredded shirt. I knew the We don't have the money to constantly keep buying you clothes. You and your friends have to start playing a little nicer together speech was coming, but this day, when I walked inside the apartment, there was nothing. I ran straight to my bedroom, anticipating my telling Timmy what had happened today. I went to pull Timmy out from underneath the bed where he usually spent his mornings and afternoons. He was not there. My gut roiled from images of my brothers taking him. I looked around the room and under each of the beds…still no Timmy.

Back to my bed I went only to discover him beneath my sheets. Pulling him out, I noticed the box was covered in fresh blood. I spun the handle and a horrid unusual music played and out he popped. Timmy also was covered in blood with a little hair stuck to his smiling face. I closed him back in and proceeded to the bathroom to clean him up. Such a messy guy he is.

It wasn't too long before the phone call came from the school. Seems classes were canceled due to the cruel beating of a classmate of mine. My mother stood there and relayed the messages to my brothers, who had just walked in the door. The classmate had been attacked while riding his bike home from school. From the look on my mom’s face, he was messed up pretty bad. I listened from behind the closed door as she described what happened. His right ear had been ripped clean off, along with his nose and eyelids. Don't think he’ll be back to school anytime soon unless they allow vegetables to attend class, I snickered.

Deep down, I knew who it was and that he deserved all he’d gotten. The possibility of eating a full lunch at school and keeping my clothes intact brought a smile to my face. The local police figured it was a wild dog due to all the scratches and tears on his body. Nice. They’ll never suspect Timmy. Only I knew it was he who did it. I made sure to clean him up all nice and pretty. He will never torment me again. That thought ran through my mind all that night.

My friend sought vengeance on all those who did me wrong. Even if a new bully took over at school, I was safe. Police claimed it was a series of unfortunate and baffling events, for no two were ever the same. But I knew better...didn’t I, Timmy. No longer did I fear going to school, or leaving my house for that matter. I was empowered, drunk on the fact I was now The Boy King and all the others were my pawns. Timmy saw to it that I was taken care of.

As the years went on, the need for more began to take hold. All he ever asked of me was that we talk and play once a day. I didn’t dare bring other toys or books back to the apartment or he would destroy them. Still, fear haunted me at home. It was a deep fear of him, what he could do or would do.

It wasn’t long before Timmy began killing. The man who stole my bike when I was ten was found strung up by a bike chain in a tree in front of his house. His eyes were gouged from the sockets and his hands were cut off. Neither eyes nor hands were ever found at the scene, but I knew where they were. They were in a bag beneath my bed. I would bury these quickly; I do not know how many times Timmy had been told not to bring things home with him. The messes were another story, always staining the sheets and messing up my clothes.

Another time I caught the neighbor breaking into our apartment when I was twelve; he held a knife to my throat and made me promise not to tell. I told only Timmy. The neighbor was found the next day with his head in his oven and the word THIEF carved in his back with the knife he had held to me...the knife that the police found stuck deep within his torso.

Timmy outdid himself with that one. I do hate thieves. Seems Timmy hates them also.

As the years went on, I found my life largely shaped by him...fear...happiness...he was the friend I loved to hate sometimes. Eventually, the time came for me to dispose of him...to put him away and live life on my own. A 16-year-old had different needs than those of an eight-year-old. No longer wanting the pain and death around me, I only wanted a peaceful life now. Timmy knew something was up. I had been acting differently and no longer talked to him. I knew that I had a twisted life that needed to be straightened. Even still, I found myself drawn to him. A simple box with a handle, along with a clown on a spring that would pounce out when needed. Always there to smile up at me, cheer me up when nothing else could. So much death...so much pain.

The night I decided to put him away for good, he disappeared, nowhere to be found, so I moved on.

I moved away from home a month later, leaving Timmy and the rest of my family to wonder where I had gone. A new life, a fresh start in a new town several miles away. All went well for the first few months. I got a job at the local butcher shop, and a small, one-bedroom apartment that was larger than the one in which I’d spent the second half of my childhood. Even met a girl at the bus stop on my way to work. Happiness at last, on my own, and I didn’t need that toy to achieve it. My life finally was straightened out, my own to lead.

I whistled a jingly tune as I unlocked my apartment door; I had set up a date with Julie Michaels, the bus-stop girl, earlier in the morning and was home early to get ready for it. The latch on the door was splintered. Slowly I pushed the door open to find Timmy in the middle of the room, drenched in blood. I shouted, Dear God, Timmy! What have you done now?

I stood in the doorway for a moment. Thoughts of childhood running through my mind over and over again, thoughts I had hoped to block out of my memory. He’s hurt someone, but whom? No one has been mean to me nor has anybody tried to cheat me in any way. I walked in and sat down next to him. Not a word was spoken; he only smiled at me with that static, joyous grin.

It’s not going to work Timmy. Who have you hurt? I asked, but no reply came. "Do you think I’ll clean you up like all those other times? I left for a reason, to get away from you. I have a