13 Tales

By Richard McOmber

Thirteen modest little tales of horror and dread; here you can read of:
A planet infested with monsters and unimaginable danger
A man lonely enough to ignore the supernatural for love
A woman literally consumed by her own hatred
A small boy battling a monster under his bed
An outlaw biker's final mistake

And eight more disturbing tales of the weird, the creepy, and the ghostly. Lock your doors, turn down your lights, and share these yarns with a friend. You won't want to read them alone!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 28, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595771769

Richard McOmber

Richard McOmber loves all ghost stories, true and not-so-true. He attended both Brigham Young and Utah State Universities. Shellee Holyoak Kuykendall is a working artist residing in Utah. She was formally educated at The University of Utah. Visit her website at: www.magicalmurals.net.

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Copyright © 2004, 2012 by Richard McOmber

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ISBN: 978-0-5953-2381-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5956-6544-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-0-5957-7176-9 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 7/20/2012

Contents

Preface

A Lady’s Revenge

Mr. Norman’s Dog

A Path of Least Resistance

Monster World

VanArjen’s Inheritance

The Helstrom Place

Bridget

Grandma Moiré’s Flowers

The Fright Storm

Dark Elemental

David’s Stone

The Monster Under My Bed

Count Noktyrn’s Journey

To Caitie and Ian

Preface

I remember as a kid waiting all week to stay up late on Friday night and watch Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. I remember the thrill when that macabre opening score played, and those weird paintings and statuary floated past the television screen. I sat transfixed. Some episodes horrified me, some didn’t, but all were fun.

I enjoyed reading books as a kid, and still do, but nothing fed my imagination as deliciously as did a cornucopia of short, imaginative tales. I collected anthologies filled with yarns by Hitchcock, Bradbury, Heinlein, Asimov, and others; I flew from alien worlds across the galaxy to our own netherworlds here at home. My little mind was well fed by a smorgasbord of exciting, challenging visions.

I miss those Friday nights.

A Lady’s Revenge

Arthur stopped abruptly as the sloppy, undisciplined hound darted past him and the horse he was leading. The horse started slightly, but was too old and tired to bolt and spill the young woman riding it. Arthur steadied and calmed the horse with whispers, stroking its muzzle. He looked back to its rider.

Helén sat sidesaddle on a large, grey coldblood, watching dubiously as her new husband dashed back and forth on his younger, sprier steed. Arthur saw that she seemed steady, though clearly uncomfortable, and continued to lead the horse for her. As they both looked on, the unintelligent dog bayed and darted over a small hill. The rider on the faster mount followed.

As Arthur and Helén caught up, a shrill cry filled the air, and then stopped abruptly. Theodore Hargrove, Helén’s new husband, stood imperiously over a small, grey fox. He had clubbed its small head with his walking stick, and held the stick high, waiting for a second stroke. Helén stared, mortified at the display. She and her butler, Arthur, watched Theodore fight off his own dog to gather up the carcass. As he lifted it, a small, steel trap clamped to the poor animal’s front foot dropped back to the ground, the tiny paw still in the metal jaws.

Helén put her hands to her mouth. Oh, Bastian! she gasped, her voice trembling, he chased it into a trap! How cruel!

Arthur studied the ground. His mouth moved silently, searching for an answer. How could he explain to this pretty, innocent young woman that she had married a man who felt no compunctions at shedding blood—any blood? Arthur never did answer.

Theodore mounted his horse and trotted up the hill to them. The hound gave up on the day’s kill, and meandered off. The three returned home as Theodore bragged endlessly about his hunt. He stopped only as they neared the estate.

A new stole for my new bride! Theodore shouted, and galloped off, leaving Arthur to walk Helén home.

I don’t want a stole, said Helén, I’d rather the little fox had been left alone.

Arthur bit his tongue. He knew Helén would never see a new stole, or anything else new and pretty. Theodore would brutishly clean the pelt, then sell it for brandy. As the two silently approached the stables, Helén hopped off the horse without help, and ran into the large, empty house.

It stood dark and gloomy, an extension of the overcast day on which the three had gone out. Most of the grounds were overrun with weeds and wild bushes. Only the paths to the stables and main roadway remained clear. Arthur put the horse away and fed it. He hung up the saddle, and turned to the house. He had to step over the eviscerated remains of the fox. He would return in the morning to clean that mess up. For now, Arthur had to help with supper.

The housekeeper, Agnes Spint, hadn’t been with the Hargrove estate as long as Arthur Bastian had, but she had seen much of the awful history of the place. She lived in town with her family, and rarely spent the night where she worked. Though Theodore Hargrove was only one man, he required a great deal of attention, and Agnes would sometimes bring in a daughter to help with the cooking and cleaning. Agnes also preferred company in the big, quiet house, especially since the tragedy.

Helén sat alone at the supper table, and ate little. Theodore still hadn’t returned from town, and Helén felt a need to tell her husband that fancy furs weren’t enjoyable when the animal was taken so wrongly. After dinner, she sat in the parlor and read until late. Finally, a hint of disgust in her voice, she announced to the servants that she was retiring for the night.

I guess you may go home now, Agnes, she called as she climbed the stairs to a hallway full of rooms. Goodnight, Arthur.

Goodnight, ma’am, they called in unison. Arthur looked nervously to Agnes and spoke.

We’ll need you here when he returns, Agnes. She nodded, and returned to the kitchen. Arthur busied himself until he heard the exhausted hooves of his master’s horse. Dutifully, as he had done ever since Theodore had inherited the estate, Arthur hurried outside to pull his drunken master off the horse.

Theodore said nothing as he slid out of his saddle and landed in a stinking heap at Arthur’s feet. Arthur ignored him, and put the horse away. He knew what would happen tonight: Theodore’s new wife would question him about the cruel hunt. She would learn that the pelt went to liquor, and that this would be the course for the rest of her married life. Theodore’s temper would flair, and his new bride would pay the price. Arthur entered the kitchen through the servants’ door, and drew some clean water into a basin. Agnes was already listening to the raised voices from the hallway upstairs.

The shouting echoed in the large house, making the words unclear. Helén was crying now. Mrs. Spint’s stern face winced as the unmistakable sound of a slap rang out. Furniture crashed into the walls, and a door slammed.

The servants lowered their eyes. One last, heartbroken cry sounded from upstairs as the poor woman found a room in which to lock herself from her assailant. Theodore Hargrove, master of the estate, staggered down the stairs to the large kitchen. Spint mumbled something about black coffee as she hurried in.

No! bellowed Hargrove as he knocked the tray of pots and cups from her hands. Brandy! Mrs. Spint quickly stooped to clean the mess out of the way. Hargrove rifled through the cupboards until he found an open bottle of cooking wine. Too drunk to recognize the difference, he guzzled it down and swayed into the next room. He passed out in an overstuffed chair.

The butler, a tall, evenly built man in his late fifties, walked quickly but dignified into the kitchen to help. She’s locked herself in Lady Kathryn’s room, I’m afraid, he whispered. Would you please see to her, Agnes? I shall watch our Mr. Hargrove." Neither looked at the other while he spoke. This kind of brutality wasn’t strange to the Hargrove house. In fact, it had already taken the life of the first Mrs. Hargrove. The butler handed the stern, jaded maid a skeleton key, and she quietly trotted up the stairs to a room in which a terrified young woman sat sobbing.

Without warning, Theodore sat up from the chair as if catapulted. He scrambled toward Spint, who recoiled. She stays where I chased her. She locks the door, she stays behind it. Hargrove was just over six feet tall, and at one time was a physically powerful man. Even though his drinking and other vices had withered him, he still menaced the small maid. Mrs. Spint stepped back toward the kitchen door. Bastian intercepted him and wrestled him back to the chair. Hargrove passed out from the exertion. Spint stepped past, being sure to give the violent drunk and his temporary captor a wide birth. When she reached the stairs, she hurried up the corridor.

The part of the house in which the young girl hid was dark and cold. Dust coated the walls and the sparse fixtures that decorated them. At the end of the hall, Spint could hear crying. It stopped abruptly as she approached the door and rattled the key in the lock. She held her candle up as she entered the room. Crumpled in one corner sat a girl of about nineteen—much too young for the situation in which she now found herself. She was pretty with long auburn hair to her mid-back. She was a stark contrast to Mrs. Spint, who may have been pretty at one time. Spint was strong; as strong as some men. Her face never showed emotion, except for impatience and an occasional absence of thought.

Mistress, she called in an almost military tone, it is best you retire now. The girl didn’t respond. Spint showed her impatient side. Again she barked her order, but the girl sat still—too still. She hid her face in her hands, and Spint had to step into the room and look. Instead of losing her temper, however, she seemed to soften.

My dear, she breathed to herself, then set the candle on a table. I shall leave the candle, and send up Arthur. I’ll prepare your chambers. Come when you’re cleaned up. With that, she turned and faded into the house’s damp gloom.

Hargrove was still asleep when Agnes met Arthur at the base of the stairs. Arthur frowned when he saw the maid alone.

Where is she? he asked immediately.

She found her way to Kathryn’s room. She needs some attention, Arthur. The maid’s eyes changed from the impatient expression to the one of distance. I shall fix her chambers and then retire myself. Her mind elsewhere, the maid strolled past to finish her long day.

Bastian took the stairs to the old, unused room in which the weeping girl sat. He brought with him a bowl of cool water and a cloth, and some liniment. He could see the faint glow of the candle from the hallway, and knocked lightly on the door before he entered. The young woman straightened and brushed her hair from her face. She wiped away tears with the back of her arm, and sniffed her nose clear—hardly becoming for a lady of her station. Arthur helped her up onto a small bed, now visible with the two candles in the room, and looked into her face. She looked back, welcoming what little human warmth existed in this dismal house. Her bruised cheeks glistened from tears in the candlelight, and Arthur could see that one eye was blackened and starting to swell. Her lip bled from a bad cut. The butler stood up and sighed in disgust. He circled the room, lighting candles and tempering his thoughts. He brought the basin to her as a soft night rain tapped at the dark window. He sat by her and they spoke.

Why does he do this, Arthur? How can he live like this?

Arthur Bastian had worked for the Hargroves longer than any other servant in the house. He had seen much, heard much, and tolerated much, yet he maintained a reassuring poise. He looked across the small, decorated room, and seemed to watch for something out the window.

The young woman sat listening. She realized that she knew very little about this man she had married only weeks before. The Theodore that had swept her off her feet was clean and charming. He brought her presents from London and Dublin. Helén was the toast of her little Swedish town. She, too, was of some consequence at home. Educated at Uppsalla, her English was impeccable, and her bearing was graceful. Everyone in her town was excited to see her marry English aristocracy. She promised her family and friends that she would sail back often to visit, since her new husband owned a swift yacht that could carry them comfortably between Sweden and Scotland. She didn’t learn until after docking in Edinburgh that the yacht was to be sold to satisfy gambling debts, and that her husband’s money was running out. Arthur washed her face gently as he continued.

He has always been this way, my dear. He was a spoiled child, a reckless and selfish youth, and he has never grown out of it. It was his older brother stood to inherit the family fortune, but he died in a hunting accident. Arthur’s upper lip curled slightly. "A rather suspicious one, in my opinion. His brother was much more a gentleman in every way; much more athletic, as well. It seems strange to me that he would fall from his horse. Of course, that was his story. Master Nathaniel’s body sustained only one injury: a blow to the back of the head. It has always been peculiar to me that a fall from a galloping horse would leave only one such strategic wound. Of course, I dared not say anything, as didn’t the other servants—not our place. I can only imagine what did happen." Arthur stopped speaking as he daubed the dried blood from Helén’s tender face. His thoughtfulness calmed her, and she took an interest in the room in which she had chosen to hide.

The furniture appeared soft and fine. On a small table stood a crystal vase of dried willows. In the opposite corner stood a rocking chair with needlepoint lying unfinished in the seat. China dolls and other charming and expensive-looking bric-a-brac lined the shelves and bookcases. Some of the books seemed to be diaries; others were of pressed flowers and other bits and pieces left from happier times. As Helén looked around, she noticed that she sat beneath a large portrait. She moved a candle for a better look, and Arthur peeked up from his ointments.

The portrait was of a man Helén recognized as Theodore, but younger and