Requiem: The Tatterdemon Trilogy, #3

By Steve Vernon

This is the final book of the trilogy - a fat monstrous volume of pure undiluted scarecrow terror.

Maddy and Wilfred, Earl and Wendy Joe Joel go toe to toe with an unbelievable army of scarecrows.

And let me tell you...these aren't your granddaddy's scarecrows.

Give this a read.

If you are a fan of good old-school "there's-something-weird-going-on-out-there-in-them-woods" kind of horror - the kind of horror made famous by novels like Stephen King's SALEMS LOT or Stan Winston's PUMPKINHEAD then you will DEFINITELY enjoy TATTERDEMON.

Hell is coming.

And it's dressed in rags...

*************

WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT STEVE VERNON

"The genre needs new blood and Steve Vernon is quite a transfusion." –Edward Lee, author of FLESH GOTHIC and CITY INFERNAL

"If Harlan Ellison, Richard Matheson and Robert Bloch had a three-way sex romp in a hot tub, and then a team of scientists came in and filtered out the water and mixed the leftover DNA into a test tube, the resulting genetic experiment would most likely grow up into Steve Vernon." - Bookgasm 

"Steve Vernon is something of an anomaly in the world of horror literature. He's one of the freshest new voices in the genre although his career has spanned twenty years. Writing with a rare swagger and confidence, Steve Vernon can lead his readers through an entire gamut of emotions from outright fear and repulsion to pity and laughter." - Cemetery Dance 

"Armed with a bizarre sense of humor, a huge amount of originality, a flair for taking risks and a strong grasp of characterization - Steve's got the chops for sure." - Dark Discoveries 

"Steve Vernon was born to write. He's the real deal and we're lucky to have him." - Richard Chizmar 

My Mom thinks I'm pretty cool, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Vernon
• Release date: Sep 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536577662

Steve Vernon

Everybody always wants a peek at the man behind the curtain. They all want to see just exactly what makes an author tick.Which ticks me off just a little bit - but what good is a lifetime if you can't ride out the peeve and ill-feeling and grin through it all. Hi! I am Steve Vernon and I'd love to scare you. Along the way I'll try to entertain you and I guarantee a giggle as well.If you want to picture me just think of that old dude at the campfire spinning out ghost stories and weird adventures and the grand epic saga of how Thud the Second stepped out of his cave with nothing more than a rock in his fist and slew the mighty saber-toothed tiger.If I listed all of the books I've written I'd most likely bore you - and I am allergic to boring so I will not bore you any further. Go and read some of my books. I promise I sound a whole lot better in print than in real life. Heck, I'll even brush my teeth and comb my hair if you think that will help any.For more up-to-date info please follow my blog at:http://stevevernonstoryteller.wordpress.com/And follow me at Twitter:@StephenVernonyours in storytelling,Steve Vernon

Book preview

THE TATTERDEMON TRILOGY

BOOK THREE - REQUIEM

By Steve Vernon

Cover Art: Keri Knutson

ISBN-13:  978-1-927765-02-9

First Edition – April 25, 2013

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher and author do not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-person web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of both the publisher and the author is strictly prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

(Note: This is the THIRD volume in a three volume novel. You ought to have read REVENANT: VOLUME ONE OF THE TATTERDEMON TRILOGY and RESURRECTION: VOLUME TWO OF THE TATTERDEMON TRILOGY before you start reading this. If you really want to save a little time, trouble and money you ought to look for THE TATTERDEMON OMNIBUS – which is all three books in one volume)

DEDICATION

To My Wife Belinda – I’m nothing but a scarecrow standing in a lonely, lonely field without you.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Reflections

* 1 *

SOME THINGS YOU KNOW, some things you think you know, and some things you just spend the rest of your life trying to forget.

Lily knew she could live forever and never forget the smell of popcorn rattling through the summer dust. She knew she would never forget the taste of Raoul’s sweet flesh. She would never forget the sound of the carousel and the feel of all those hungry eyes upon her. And she would never forget the clotted sour aftertaste of sixteen tubs of premium ice cream.

She lay on the couch like a beached whale, gazing through the dirty haze of her front screen window, trying to look through her own hazy reflection. She stared down at the town she would never be a part of.

That was something else she knew.

She was an outsider. 

If she lived in the town of Crossfall for another six hundred years, she would always be the circus freak fat lady, the stranger.

The outcast.

She didn’t mind.

The town was dying.

Who wanted to join a walking wake?

The sign outside Crossfall, reading POPULATION 3400, was a flat out lie. 

The truth was Crossfall had been a ghost town for many years. A town that was full of tattered ghosts hiding behind a shroud of long forgotten secrets. The town was dead and had died a forever long time ago. 

Some said it died when the cod fishery gave out. Others blamed the death of the textile plant. Others blamed the distant malls, clustered on the outskirts like a handful of concrete tumors, drawing the business from the local stores, starving them slowly. Maybe you could blame the new highway for forgetting Crossfall was ever on the map. Maybe you could blame the church, folded into moral and fiscal bankruptcy.

There were a lot of theories, but Lily knew the truth. 

Crossfall died a long time before any of that. Nowadays it just lay against the road like a derelict automobile. Someday, even the ghosts would move on. Someday, a great dry wind would blast the little town from the map.

Life was a line drawn between the moving and the still; the light and the shadow. It was the difference between a body and a well-made puppet. Truth to tell, the town had been dying longer than anyone could recall. The motion that had begun when Maddy had brained and buried her husband Vic, only served to speed things up a little faster.

Like dominoes, each event toppled into place.

* 2 *

Roland Friar grinned at himself in the side mirror. 

He’d left the lady of sweet lies lying in a bed he’d paid extra for far behind him.

He wasn’t thinking about dying as he swung himself up into the Peterbilt semi cab. 

He was thinking nice things. 

How good the road looked. 

How fine life could be, as he eased himself into the driver’s seat, letting the preprogrammed hydraulics work their magic.

The preset seat raised him upwards, until he was just high enough to see over the cut down dashboard. He wiggled his toes beneath the leather confines of his grease stained work boots.

He stretched his legs as far as they could reach.

He double checked for safety’s sake.

Yup. 

He could reach the pedals just fine.

He grinned and stared around like a happy cocker spaniel. He’d already bullied the yardman out of the load of hay. The bastard had him lined up to haul a flatbed of four marble slabs to a tombstone factory. The damn thing had looked like Stonehenge on wheels. It was bound to play hell with any rig and driver stupid enough to try and haul it.

No sir, he’d take the hay ride. There was nothing but sweet smelling bales of tall dead grass. The worse he’d worry about was a case of hay fever. The load was headed to a Halifax landscaper. The bastard would peddle them to those with more money than brains, telling them that there was nothing like a bale of dead hay to give their yards a little harvest flavor.

Roland gave his lucky Blue Jay’s baseball cap his magic wiggle. A secret switch that transformed him from the dumpy little man he was into Roland Friar, long haul trucker.

The hat was a good luck charm, given to him by Carmen on their wedding day.  He’d worn it every mile of the road.

Damn it, he loved sitting up this high. When you were the runt of a family of grasshopper knee-highs, altitude was nothing to be sneezed at. Sitting up here in his custom Peterbilt he felt as large as King Kong on a pair of skyscraper stilts.

Roland was nearly five feet tall. Five one if he rocked on his toes. He made up for it in muscle, standing as wide as a forklift. Mostly, thanks to the beer and truck stop eggs, as sure as death rides a pale pony.

He shifted down and revved it up. The big rig roared into life. There were flames and a name painted on the cab. A truck wasn’t worth a beggar’s fart, unless you named it. Roland named it after himself, calling it Rolling Fire.

He roared ahead, happy as a bird on the wing. 

It was a good day.

It could only get better.

* 3 *

What remained of Vic Harker shook the grave dirt from the pegs of his feet.

He’d strained all night, and now he was free. 

He stood stiffly, like a pair of long johns left to freeze on a winter clothesline.

Shit. 

How’d he get so deep in the dirt? 

He’d been drunk, maybe. 

Maybe he was part gopher? 

Christ. 

His head was splitting. He felt like he’d brained himself with an axe.

He touched his skull. 

He couldn’t quite feel it, his fingers still numb from last night’s drunk. 

Hell. 

He couldn’t feel his fingers, either. 

And what the fuck were daisies doing up this time of year? 

It was the goddamn scientists, pumping the air full of shit and corruption. There was no telling just what the fuck would grow, they keep doing it. Vic shook his head which felt as if it might fall off. 

Fucking hangover.

He must have been on a real howler, most likely drunk as ten skunks in a whiskey barrel.

He remembered an argument with Maddy. 

Something about eggs.

Hell. 

Arguments were what married folks did. Scrapping didn’t make for the end of days. His own ma and pa had a hell of a lot worse arguments, and their marriage had lasted.

He looked towards the house. 

Christ, what was he doing out here? 

How the hell had he got our here in the field? 

He took a step, but could barely feel his feet. He fell to the dirt like a toppled tree. He tried to laugh at his foolishness. His throat felt clogged, like he’d gargled in mud. He tried to spit, but that wasn’t working, either.

Fuck. 

Then he saw his hands. 

He saw what was left of them. 

What the hell? 

His legs, too. 

Black and muddy, they looked like sticks were running through them.

Damn.

He stumbled for home. 

He had to get to Maddy. She would forgive him. She would make him better. The two of them could kiss and make up, just as soon as he washed out his throat. 

He made it to the back door, but his hands still wouldn’t work. 

Fuck.

What had happened?

Had he amputated himself? He stared at his reflection in the window glass, backlit by the rising sun. What the hell had he got into? Had he been abducted by aliens? Had he drunk a glass of toxic moonshine? Maybe he had pissed off the wood fairies?

Damn it. 

He looked like a Halloween costume on legs only way worse. 

He looked like a nightmares of ten thousand Elm Streets. 

He started remembering things, like flashes of light and the taste of dirt, slapping on his face. He remembered the feel of that spade beating him down and the stink of his pulverized dead flesh.

His memory clogged, gave one good dry heave, and then he threw the whole scene right back up in his face. 

All at once he remembered just how it had all went down.

What the fuck am I?

Tatterdemon, whispered a soft blue echo.

You are Tatterdemon.

I am Tatterdemon.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Waking Up To Bad Dreams

* 1 *

MADDY DREAMED ALL NIGHT, about digging up Vic’s body, only she could not find a shovel to dig with.

She ran through the fields, hunting for a shovel. When she finally found the shovel it shot up higher than a lightning struck jack pine. Vic’s maggoty corpse hung from the D-handle like a rice stuffed piñata. She knelt at his feet praying, rosary beads sliding through her teeth like strings of sour candy.

Then he was riding on her back. She piggybacked him across the field, out to where her she’d buried daddy. Daddy stood there, all blue and tattery, wearing a battered straw hat so big it made him look like a giant haystack. She blew at the hat and the straw whipped and cut her flesh like a wave of dried killer bees. She felt Vic’s leg bones sticking into her flesh, then out of her flesh, like she’d become some kind of puppet.

When she woke up things were way worse.

She opened her eyes. 

Staring back into them was a maggot ridden corpse. 

It wasn’t Vic. It all came back to her. She’d killed Vic and buried him. She’d clocked Marvin Pusser with the paint can and desecrated his truck with the other.

It came back to her slowly, like a photograph developing. 

Helliard. 

Duane.

Well if it isn’t sleepy-fucking-beauty. Did you have a nice nap?

Helliard stood in the doorway. He had one of her favorite bandanas, wrapped about the wreckage of his ear. Blood clotted and darkened the cheery red paisley.

I hope you got your beauty rest, because I’m horny man, he told her. A horny morning man as regular as sunrise, my dick shoots up every morning.

Maddy smiled as sweetly as she could. She figured he was going to kill her, sooner or later, and she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of her being afraid. 

I believe Vic left a couple of stroke books in the bottom of the closet, she suggested. if you wanted to handle that yourself.

Helliard didn’t even bother to grin.

He just leaned over and shoved Duane aside.

Think wet thoughts, bitch, he told her. It’ll go a lot easier.

Maddy snapped her teeth. 

Come a little closer, fuckhead, she said. I’m hungry, and that ear tasted fine.

He pulled his pistol to remind her who was boss. 

Wake up cranky, did you? he jammed the pistol into her throat, so hard it made her hurt. You get any ideas and I’ll put a hole through your skull and fuck that while you’re bleeding to death.

Then something that was nearly a voice, graveled from the doorway.

Any fucking to do, I’m the fucker gets to do it.

Helliard turned towards the voice.

Maddy, who was already looking that way just lay there and stared at the sight of   Vic - or something awful close to him, standing there in the doorway.

He’d come back.

It was way worse than watching TV sports.

Maddy still didn’t know who or what to cheer for.

* 2 *

Wilfred woke up somewhere west of the wrong side of ugly. 

His leg ached like a bastard from the bruises left over from yesterday’s car wreck. Jumping off the freezer hadn’t help it none, either. His mouth tasted like a sandy handful of shit had been crammed down it. His skull was staging a one-bone rock concert.

He brewed up a pot of Mike Tyson coffee - black, strong and ugly. He took a cup downstairs, with a couple of cigarettes. There was nothing like waking up to a healthy breakfast to kick-start the heartbeat of the morning.

Morning Emma. How’d you sleep?

He took a sip of coffee.

It damn near burnt his lips off.

I had a fender bender yesterday. Just one of those things. I tried to drag race a jet plane with a broke down wheel barrow. I guess I bruised my leg up some.

He’d already told her this story last night, but she didn’t seem to mind. That was marriage for you. People found a gentle sort of comfort in repetition. He played down the car crash, not wanting her to worry.

You aren’t missing much, Emma. There’s not a hell of lot happening now that didn’t happen a year before. Nothing changes here in Crossfall. Nothing ever will.

He talked for a slow sipped cup of coffee, and both of the cigarettes.

Once he thought he saw her move.

That was crazy, wasn’t it?

He was losing it. He knew she was dead, but he also knew that he was slowly giving up on reality – which didn’t mean he was anywhere close to nailing himself up to the side of a church. It’s just that making pretend was a hell of a lot easier on the soul. He just liked talking to his wife, was all.

Shit.

He ought to lie down. He ought to just forget about all of that hanging business. He ought to just lie down in the freezer and let the door bang shut above him. 

Why not? 

Freezing was supposed to be painless. It would be a lot easier than hanging himself and cheaper than buying rope. All he had to do was just lay back and let go. When they found him he’d be laying in Emma’s arms, just the way he liked to lay.

That’d give them something to talk about.

Maybe he could leave them a note, a last wish. 

Maybe they would bury the two of them both in the freezer.

Ha. 

He’d like to see the pallbearers handle that.

He gently closed the lid, trying not to make a bang. It was time to go to work. There was no rest for the wicked. 

He went upstairs. 

At the close of the freezer