The Pitchfork Diaries Vol.1

By Jake Bannerman

THE APEX OF TERROR

The Pitchfork Diaries is a collection of short stories and prose unlike anything you have ever read before. Even the darkest and most violent imaginings of your mind cannot come close to matching the horrors contained within.

J.S. Bannerman, a new name in the horror genre, has skilfully woven a collection of tales that will inescapably work their way into your psyche, take up residence and relentlessly haunt you. Prepare yourself to be confronted by words that will threaten to shake the foundation of everything you thought you knew; no truth is too
uncomfortable, no thought too gruesome to share.

All are invited to read The Pitchfork Diaries. Many will never be the same.

Born and raised in the church, J.S. Bannerman has taken the dangerous stance to question events that have been spoon fed to him as the truth since his childhood. He continually pushes
boundaries as a purveyor of terror and often strives to find that disquietude that exists inside each one of us.

He is a nomad, calling no one place home; choosing the life of a traveler while on the mission of writing the Family of Dog
series. As a result you may find him in your town, writing at your local pub, crafting tales of horror so terrifyingly depraved and heartbreakingly cruel that you would never believe that they come from a mind as normal as his. Just beware, because within each tale is a message; it’s just up to you to figure out what it means.

J.S.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jake Bannerman
• Release date: Sep 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465717085

Jake Bannerman

About Jake BannermanJake BannermanTheological Horror authorOKC, Oklahomawww.nightcorebooks.com or email me at [e-mail]

Book preview

THE PITCHFORK DIARIES

VOLUME ONE

By Jake Bannerman

Copyright 2011 Jake Bannerman & The Goat Franchise

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The Scarecrow’s Lament

It was almost laughable how cliché the daily grind of existence was in this dead-end town Texas town. Nothing ever happened here, and nobody ever came here apart from the lost travellers; travellers who seemed to lack the intellect to know that this state was little more than a soulless desert, not worthy of the effort they had put into coming to it.

In this quiet, tumbleweed possessed little shit-hole, every detail of everyone’s life was known – the weird kids at the high school, the town drunk who sat outside the corner store pouring liquor into his mouth from the shaking bottle – nothing was kept a secret. Nothing, except for this.

This was one of those secrets that everyone keeps because no-one is brave enough to talk about it, to dredge up the horrors of the past. Pushed to the side and forgotten, it had been buried away until it – she – was nothing more than a whispered legend.

But nothing stays buried forever.

When word reached us of what happened, I remember staring out of the window into the sand-covered nothingness. Though I should have been shocked and horrified by the news I had heard, all I could think of was how it was about Goddamn time that this lonely little town finally had something to talk about. Does that make me a bad person? Hell, no – not when you consider what it was that had happened.

I suppose the really shocking thing was that we had all ignored the elephant in the room until now. This had been coming for so long – forty nine years now, to be precise – but it was ignored by everybody. We were all stuck on autopilot, pretending that everything was fine and dandy.

It wasn’t.

Before I explain to you what it was that shook us all so badly, you have to understand one thing – on more than one occasion before, there have been acts of violence and strange happenings in the state of Texas, just as in any other state. This, however, this inexplicable insanity; this was something else altogether, something greater and more terrible than anything which had come before.

And now, we come to it.

Everyone in the room was frozen to the spot. Staring in shock and awe, they stood as still as statues and listened to what they were hearing, filled with a terrible anticipation of what was to come. Forty nine years ago it happened, and for forty nine years not a single word had passed the lips of the infamous Greta O’Hare.

Her crimes, though never spoken aloud in public, were legendary. It was the only thing this little town was known for; the woman who raped a scarecrow. She ripped apart the bodies of travellers who were lost and unfortunate enough to stray across her path, using their severed and broken body parts to create her own man. But no; such a simple explanation does not, after all, do justice to her story.

She used the rotted and fetid scarecrow as her own sex slave. She had taken the penises of not only the men she had captured, but animals as well; cows and horses, amongst others, and she interchanged them as they became too rotten to use for the purposes she had intended.

The man that was made of hay, broken tree limbs and abused human remains had only one foot, a partial arm, a brutally severed torso stitched roughly together with twine, and a gaping hole in the chest where the soft tissue of a now cannibalized heart had once lived. The scalp of the decapitated head had been sewn together from two pieces, one blond and one brown.

A lamp sat in the corner of the barn upon an old wooden table, illuminating the phonograph player that sat next to it. Soft notes of music streamed from the large, curved horn atop the player, and as it filled the barn her young body swayed from side to side. She pranced around provocatively in her version of a murderous burlesque dance, perhaps imagining that she was, in her way, arousing and readying the butchered corpse.

As the song drew to an end, she would begin to crawl on all fours, swinging her hair back and forth and licking her lips, flaunting her youthful body to the dead as she lewdly caressed herself in anticipation of the sickening erotic adventure she was about to embark upon. Continuing to writhe about on the floor, her sweating body gleamed in the harsh light of the lamp as she chose from her vile collection which dead-skinned penis would be the subject of her attentions that night.

Holding each one up to study it critically, she kissed it and wrapped her tongue around it as if it belonged to a long-lost lover before selecting one and fashioning it onto the torso that was entrenched with the unmistakable stench of death. She yearned to ride upon it with the stiffened and dead cock inside her body, hoping that death’s ejaculation could finally soothe her black soul.

With this scene of depravity being sited on the north side of the secluded barn, it was little surprise that it continued for so long without the notice of anyone but those who were invited to watch. They stared hungrily through the peepholes that had been drilled into the walls for just that purpose; the titillation and satisfaction of those who knew of the macabre dance of the scarecrow.

And from what we know now, it went on for years; the gate of perversion had been opened, the horrors that were witnessed untold and unknown of then, in even the sickest of circles. Not only had the woman ripped the bodies apart, but she had also clumsily stitched them together like Frankenstein’s monster, sometimes going for days at a time with bloodstained bed sheets and hair that was dirty and matted by the clots of blood clumped in it. What was it, we wondered, that gave her the strength to tear those men apart? She insisted, to those select few who knew, that she was doing only the work of the Lord.

There were a foul coven of elderly men who stood and watched her antics, masturbating away furiously as they watched the young girl raping the abused and putrid corpse, her father reaping the financial benefits as she writhed on top of a decomposed cock, moaning all the time like some cheap saloon whore, whilst all the time they stroked furiously at their own withered cocks, dreaming of the sexual perversions that they lived out by watching a girl fucking a corpse.

And now, the gathered assembly stood still, too shocked for speech as the woman’s voice echoed around the hall, though it was barely more than a hoarse, cracked whisper. They were stunned and confused to see her standing before them – after all, she had been diagnosed with mental retardation, and had not spoken even a single word since she had been rescued from the barn and brought here to the institute.

Until