The Diorama and Other Stories

By Sebastian Bendix

The Diorama and Other Stories is a frighteningly fun collection of original horror from author Sebastian Bendix. Werewolves, vampires and ghouls, dismemberment-happy killers, vengeful spirits, cannibal families, mythological monsters, cursed objects – all your favorites are here, given Bendix's uniquely terrifying and occasionally humorous spin. Eleven stories to shiver, shudder and delight lovers of the macabre, a nightmare thrill ride through horrific worlds both grounded and otherworldly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sebastian Bendix
• Release date: Oct 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463306932

Sebastian Bendix

Sebastian Bendix is a Los Angeles based writer and musician, as well as founder of horror film series, Friday Night Frights. He attended school at Emerson College for creative writing and spent his formative years in Boston playing in popular local band The Ghost of Tony Gold. Upon moving to LA he shifted his focus back to writing and began contributing articles to entertainment websites such as CHUD.com and the print publication Mean Magazine. However, his true passion lies in the realm of horror fiction. Bendix has found success both online and in print with numerous stories published in genre imprints and noted podcast The Wicked Library. In 2013, Bendix self-published his first horror/fantasy novel titled "The Patchwork Girl." This was followed by his second novel, "The Stronghold," a thrilling story inspired by real-life events, which has been published and is available digitally and in print. Alongside his writing endeavors, Sebastian Bendix is also a devoted film lover. He has made contributions to a science fiction anthology film called "Portals," released in October 2019. Recently, Bendix completed "Hell Bent for Heather", a horror novel in the style of Stephen King that he hopes will be the definitive take on heavy metal horror, it is currently out to publishers. He also just published "Hollow Jack & the Blood Curse of Blackwater", the first in a series of western horror novellas centered around a supernatural gunslinger. Sebastian Bendix's diverse background in writing, music, and film influences his unique storytelling style, making him a notable figure in the world of horror fiction. Bendix currently resides in Atlanta with his wife Jennifer and their supermutt Annie.

Book preview

THE DIORAMA

AND OTHER STORIES

BY SEBASTIAN BENDIX

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2018 by Sebastian Bendix

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Published, 2018

ISBN 9780463306932

Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used factiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

All words by Sebastian Bendix

All artwork by Ian Adams

Edited by Jennifer Yarbrough

www.sebastianbendix.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

introduction

the diorama

shriek of the harpy

rock, paper, scissors

call the fire brigade

sweet and sticky sarah

rachel at rest

full moon over fellsway

tricking the haunt

a is for andy

peckerwood

diner’s club

about the author

For Jennifer and Pumpkin P.

INTRODUCTION

As a horror writer – or even just a fan of horror – the one thing that you are invariably asked is, Why do you like this stuff?

People who aren’t horror fans just don’t get it. They can’t comprehend why anyone would want to see – or read, as is relevant here – stories about ghouls and werewolves, of masked, dismemberment happy killers, of vengeful spirits, of cannibal families, of shambling, flesh-starved reanimated corpses, of all things terrible and frightening, of horrors grounded or otherworldly. It’s just not their thing, and that’s OK, I get it – musicals aren’t my thing and likely never will be. Different strokes and all that. But there’s a real visceral rejection of horror in certain circles, a true bafflement that extends well beyond the obvious differences in tastes. Why would you subject yourself to this stuff?

Well, there’s the easy answer – horror is fun. But the real draw, the one that non-horror fans don’t see and many horror fans possibly don’t fully realize, is that horror is about ideas. Not in the same way that science fiction is about ideas; horror doesn’t usually seek to re-contextualize our world by positing ideas about the future. But what horror does is take our valid, logical – and in some cases illogical – fears and re-contextualize them in a space that is safe. As long as the horror remains on the screen or the page, it can’t really hurt us. We can play with our terror in a mental sandbox that is as harmless as a literal one. A spookhouse of the subconscious that quickens the pulse, delivers a jolt, gives us the heebie jeebies and maybe gets under the skin, but a carnival ride just the same, and the unruly, questionable person at the controls might seem a little creepy, but ultimately they, like the stories themselves, are harmless.

At least that’s what we tell ourselves.  

But I’m sure if you are a horror fan, you know this, and you’ve certainly heard it all before. I never promised you originality in my intro! Consider this just a gentle reminder of why you’re here, and consider me the creep manning the controls of the spookhouse ride you are about to embark on. I had a lot of fun writing these stories and playing in the scary sandbox of my mind. I hope you have fun too.

Because in the end, the best answer is the easy one: Horror is fun!

~Sebastian Bendix, Oct 22, 2018

THE DIORAMA

Before he had made it across the parking lot, the sky opened up and pissed on Martin Taper, raining hot and foul. It pooled in the whack-a-mole potholes of the Price Kingdom Shopping Center, each puddle a window into a more promising dimension. The Martin that existed in those watery portals was a spy or a superhero or a warrior of the post-apocalyptic wastes, not a lowly clerk facing down a nine hour shift under the whip of branch manager Ethan Nulby. Martin sighed and raised his eyes to the ValuePet, his retail tomb that stank of dog paws and cat dander. As he approached the automatic doors he caught a glimpse of his face in the glass, rain water pasting his hair into the beaten lines of his brow. The doors gasped open, dry as a pharaoh’s curse, and he dragged himself into the hopeless flicker of fluorescents, his feet squeaking out a requiem on the charcoal-flecked linoleum.

    Hey, Tapeworm, Nulby greeted, the opening salvo in today’s belittlements. It was a sad act of manifest destiny that a sap with the name Taper would end up a clerk in a store that sold parasite medications, arming the bullying manager with a nickname to wield as ridicule.  But Martin took it with his customary good humor, because what was he supposed to do? The world was full of Ethan Nulbys; Martin had endured them all throughout his school years, where his failure to engage with curriculum had doomed him to a lifetime crushed beneath the heels of middle-management. It was in those frivolous days of youth that Martin first conceived his diorama, a world all his own that allowed him to live out fantastical dreams, heart-rending romances and nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat adventures. It waited back at his apartment, silent under the eaves, ready to salve Martin from the cruelty that the next eight hours would undoubtedly inflict.

    Your counts were short again last night, Nulby informed him with phony regret, as if not savoring every scrumptious, reprimanding bite.  

    Why didn’t you mention it at the end of the shift?

    Because I did a count again this morning. The exalted branch manager was indignant that a lowly clerk would deign to question his command of protocol. It became clear to Martin that this day was going to be worse than anticipated; a slow, protracted strangulation.  

    Sorry Ethan. I’ll try to stay focused on my transactions.

    See that you do.  Nulby’s eyes fell hungrily on Allison McCarthy, who was just coming in the door, her smile soft and deferent. Martin wanted to tear out those eyes and drop them into the python tank where the snakes would devour them with a pop.

Four hours passed much as Martin imagined it would at a gulag. Nulby took the cash drawer into the office to count it and Martin went dutifully into the aisles to finish out his shift. Passing by the grooming center he offered Allison a smile that he had practiced for the better part of the morning, one that would hide his desperation but not come off as too cocky either. She returned with her own, and entering the stockroom Martin allowed his heart the faintest whiff of hope, the slightest tingle of possibility. But that was all gone by the time he dragged his first bag of kitty litter out to aisle seven.

Allison was talking to Jeremy, a handsome young graduate who had just started at the store’s veterinary clinic. Martin had seen them talking before, but had blinded himself to their obvious and growing attraction. Now here was Jeremy sneaking a kiss, and by the playful way Allison giggled and pushed him away it was clear that this thing between them had grown far beyond a harmless workplace flirtation. Of course Martin was months, if not years away from finding the courage to ask Allison out, but it didn’t make the sight of her fresh, flowering love any less of a blow to his heart.

    Your drawer was short again, a voice stabbed in his ear. He turned to find Nulby standing there, smiling with insufferable smugness. Martin knew for certain that his drawer was not short; he had gone over all his transactions twice, three times, even four if the customer was being particularly difficult. Nulby was up to something, skimming from the till, but Martin was powerless to prove it. Stop by the office when you finish your shift, his lying thief of a boss ordered. I have to write you up this time.

On a normal day, Martin might have been able to muster a defense, but he was too wounded by Allison and that coffin-nail kiss. So he finished his shift, took his write-up slip without protest and went home to the one place in this miserable world where he mattered.

The Pembertons were fighting again when he arrived at his grey, weather-worn duplex, and poor Dennis Pemberton was occupying his usual sad spot on the bowed front porch stoop. Dennis spent a lot of time on that stoop as his parents, whom Martin had never laid eyes on, spent their time inside the ground floor apartment fighting and generally ignoring their nine year-old son.

For some reason the kid brightened when he saw Martin coming. Hi, he squeaked in his broken, I’ve-been-crying-for-two-hours voice.

    Hey Dennis, Martin returned. He stepped past the boy, who was etching something into the rotting wood with a snapped off twig.

Maybe it was because he recognized the lonely spark of vestigial creativity in the boy, but Martin was suddenly struck with the unusual impulse to extend himself. His formative years had echoed this boy’s more than he cared to admit, and maybe the greatest charity he could offer this gloomy, doomed child was to share with him the sweet relief of imagination.

    You want to see something cool?

It didn’t occur to Martin until afterwards how much this rang like the enticement of a child molester, but he was sure it was lost on Dennis. The boy accepted gratefully and they took the narrow stairs to the attic apartment, and when they stepped through the door, Martin placed his hand on the light switch and paused for dramatic effect.

    You ready? he asked Dennis.

The boy nodded eagerly and Martin flicked the switch on with a snap.

The room lit up, revealing a miniature world. Cardboard skyscrapers grasped for a sky twinkling with Christmas light stars. Beneath them, streets of grey tile spread out like a great, clean-lined web, edged with carefully molded plastic curbs and tiny, iridescent street lamps, the kind you found in a model train kit. Toy cars of every make and era crowded the thoroughfares, giving the city a claustrophobic feel of authentic habitation. Inside the cars miniature commuters sat with grim looks on their faces, trapped in a hellish gridlock that would never clear. Beyond the city, mountains of buckled turf rose, hinting at a world outside of the diorama. It was all so detailed and thoroughly convincing that Dennis couldn’t help but gasp.

    Well, Martin asked, knowing full well the answer. Pretty cool, huh?

Dennis answered yeah as if he had just wandered into a secret and private Disneyland, which in a sense, he had. His eyes were lit with the sort of youthful wonder Martin had all but forgotten, and it made him smile so broadly that his atrophied cheek muscles cramped. With a sweeping gesture he bid Dennis entry, and the kid stepped awestruck into the steepled room.

On a chipboard shelving unit, the players of this glorious microcosm were arranged in neat rows like some strange, shrunken militia. They came in many shapes and varying scales, some highly articulated while others immobile, but they were all born of the same plastic brotherhood. There were hunched over and hobbling old folks; leather adorned gangs of every ethnicity; suit-and-tie office drones and corporate raiders; moms and their children, ready for food shopping and playground afternoons. But lording above them on the highest shelf were the main players, the heroes and villains, the demons and demigods that commanded true power in this fantastical realm. They were the lynchpins around which all dramas played out, and their sculpted, costumed physiques made them impossible to ignore.  

Dennis walked over to the shelving unit with the respect of a pilgrim approaching a holy altar. He gazed awestruck at the figures on the top shelf, at the superheroes, monsters and robots. Martin could sense that Dennis wanted to reach out, longed to hold one of them in his fevered little palms, but that he felt somehow unworthy. This warmed Martin to Dennis; the kid seemed to know when he was in the presence of something truly mystical.

    So, Martin said once the moment had been given proper dramatic weight. I think tonight will be a Black Shroud adventure.

Dennis beamed excitedly. Who’s the Black Shroud?

Poor, deprived child, Martin thought.  It was true; the Black Shroud was not as popular as A-list heroes like Batman or Daredevil. He was a character from a comic book series long since canceled, and as such, had a wide-open playing field dramatically speaking. This freed Martin to impose his own narrative without insult to canon, and as a result the Black Shroud became his regular avatar.

He took the action figure down from its vaunted place upon the shelf and held it before Dennis’s rapturous eyes. He could see the boy’s mind dancing across the contours of the figure, lingering in the folds of the hooded, enveloping cloak, probing at the secrets hidden in that cold, expressionless mask.

    Is he like Batman? Dennis asked.

    Better, Martin answered definitively.  

He took the figure and went over to the diorama, placing the Shroud on his favorite perch – Forsythe tower; a gothic skyscraper adorned with stern gargoyles and extended outcroppings. There the avenger was in his true element, a shadowy sentinel waiting to strike.

Now all that was needed were wrongdoings for the Shroud to set right. As he often did in these moments, Martin rifled through his daily torments to find inspiration, and today the source of his anguish was Allison and her handsome but dull-witted paramour...

Struck by the muse, Martin turned to the shelves and eyed Dr. Millicent Chambers, a plucky archeologist from a jungle adventure film series. In the distorted lens of Martin’s feelings the sculpt was a dead ringer for Allison, so he took the figure down from the shelf and placed her on a desolate curbside.

    She looks so lonely there, Dennis remarked.

    Then why don’t we give her a friend?  Martin already had someone in mind – a smiling, clear-eyed brute hiding proudly, boastfully even, in the far back of one of the shelves. Guided by providence, Martin turned back to the display, and reaching behind a row of better loved figures, landed on the exact one he was looking for. He drew the toy out, careful not to topple the others, and presented its stupid, innocuous form to Dennis.

The boy’s eyes lit up. It’s a fireman!

That was not the desired effect, Martin inwardly groused. Of course firemen were heroes to most children; he would have expected a worshipful reaction from an average mouth-breather, but Martin had hoped that Dennis, proving himself a kindred soul, would be different. In truth Martin had nothing against firemen – they were heroes, after all – but he had everything against the All-American, beer drinking, nerd bullying archetype that he felt Four Alarm Jim, the fireman figure in question, represented. So what better a stand-in for Jeremy?  

    Yeah, he’s a fireman, Martin conceded. "But he’s a dumb fireman."

The word worked like a carefully targeted missile. Dennis scrunched up his face as if smelling a dog fart and Four Alarm Jim became a plastic persona-non-grata in his nine year-old mind. Yeah, he’s dumb.

Martin took Four Alarm Jim in one hand and Millicent in the other and forced their faces together, playing out the act of kissing with grotesque lip-smacking noises. This sent Dennis into gales of repulsed laughter, his disapproval of Jim finalized by the exclamation of Gross!  

It was time to set the action into motion. Turning back to the display, Martin was drawn to a sinister figure that stood hunched in the corner like a rat waiting to strike from the shadows. With a delicate hand he plucked up the nasty little character, careful to avoid pricking his finger on its pointed beak of a nose.

    This is Sketchy Crumb, Martin announced. He’s a bad guy.

Bad guy didn’t really do Sketchy Crumb justice. He was a low-level thug, a bank-robber, a drug-peddler, a perennial super-villain henchman and all-around scumbag. And of course, in Martin’s mind, Sketchy represented all of Ethan Nulby’s finer qualities.

Selecting a tiny pistol from a cabinet drawer, Martin put the weapon in Sketchy’s hand and set him down in the diorama in front of Millicent and Jim. He positioned the criminal in a stick-up pose, gun out, and adjusted Millicent’s arms so they were raised high over her head in surrender. Then, relishing the moment, he did the same for Jim, whose vocation as a firefighter apparently made him no less of a coward.

Now came the fun part. This is a stick-up, Martin said in a sandpaper rasp meant to approximate Sketchy’s cigarette-mangled voice. He reached into the scene and pivoted Sketchy so that he aimed the gun at Millicent, then Jim, then back to Millicent. Gimme all yer money. Dennis giggled, delighting in the mini-mugging.

Switching characters effortlessly, Martin moved to Millicent, twisting her to look at Jim. Aren’t you going to do something? she protested in Martin’s girl voice falsetto. I thought you were a big tough fireman!

Martin moved again to Jim, jiggling him in a pantomime of cartoonish shivering. B-b-but he’s got a gun, Millicent! As interpreted by Martin, Jim’s voice was low and manly, but it squeaked high on the word gun to expose a decidedly un-manly terror. What am I supposed to do, get myself shot?!

The fact that Jim’s reluctance to be a hero was a perfectly reasonable real-world response had no bearing on his standing in the world of the diorama – he was now firmly and irrevocably a coward. Martin was pleased to see the judgment settling on Dennis’s face even before Sketchy finished his demands. That’s right you big baby, now empty yer pockets and make it quick!

Finally the moment Martin had been anticipating arrived. Leaning his body carefully over the city streets, he snatched the Black Shroud from his skyscraper perch and swept him down on to the scene, allowing his cloak to billow out dramatically. He landed the Shroud directly behind the stick-up man and quickly positioned his muscled arms behind the drop of the cloak’s folds. The hero stood there, calmly iconic, his statuesque readiness announcing him an undisputable badass. Judging from the wowed look on Dennis’s face, the entrance was wholly effective.

    Sketchy Crumb, the Shroud announced in Martin’s best husky growl. I thought I put you away for good last time.

    Curse you Black Shroud, was the only cliché Sketchy had time to exclaim before the Shroud, guided by Martin’s sure hand, swatted the gun from his molded plastic grip. It was a move Martin had perfected after long nights of play, and he was pleased to see that it met with the boy’s enthusiastic approval. The Shroud’s follow-up move was to knock Sketchy over, and with a quick adjustment to the elbow joint, the hooded avenger slammed the criminal mercilessly into the curb. It was a tad brutal for a child’s game, but Dennis took only ecstatic, wide-eyed pleasure from it.

Once the grim but heartily enjoyed take-down of Sketchy Crumb was over, the Shroud turned his attention to the young couple, whose frozen, smiling faces wordlessly expressed their gratitude. Not satisfied with that, Martin took Millicent and lowering her arms, shoved her against the Shroud’s molded musculature in the action figure version of a hug.

    Thank you, thank you, Millicent said with Martin’s octave-pitched voice. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along. You could almost see a look of shame assert itself on Four Alarm Jim’s normally oblivious face.

    Glad to be of help, ma’am. The line was more appropriate for a stalwart do-gooder like Superman or Captain America than a scourge of the night like the Black Shroud, but this show was for the benefit of a less sophisticated audience. I’d advise you to keep off these streets after dark. You never know who you might run into.

With that, the Shroud was whisked back to the rooftops, leaving a moony-eyed Millicent in his wake. There goes a real man, she said to Jim, his emasculation now complete. It was a fine conclusion to the night’s story, and Dennis clapped with appreciative glee.

A howl was heard outside, the frustrated call of Dennis’s mother looking for him in the back yard. Now there was a woman you did not want to piss off. I think you’d better get going, Martin urged his freshly-minted acolyte. Dennis’s shoulders slumped, the respite over, and he heeded his mother with the grim duty of a soldier returning to war.

But before he walked out the door, he turned back to Martin. Can we play again some time? he asked, aching with hope.

    We’ll see, Martin said. Had he been a parent he would have known that those words are the two that all wanting children dread hearing most. But Martin wasn’t a parent nor would he ever be, so half-hearted was the best he could do. Dennis took the answer with a wistful sulk and closed the door quietly behind him.

The next day Martin was absently wandering the aisles, his mind plotting tonight’s diorama, when he heard the heated sound of Allison and Nulby arguing. The infallible branch manager was admonishing Allison for the way she had handled an irate customer who had come in for a grooming without first making an appointment. Allison called Jeremy over to back her up, to tell Nulby that she had handled the situation as politely as possible and the customer was the one who behaved unreasonably.

    Sorry babe, Jeremy said with a shrug. I wasn’t really paying attention.

This was not the show of support Allison had expected from her new boyfriend. Unable to stomach the betrayal of such beauty, Martin stepped out from behind the aisle, channeling the grim righteousness of his hero the Black Shroud.

    I heard the whole thing, Martin lied. Allison was as polite as could be. The customer was totally out of line.

Allison’s looked to Martin, her face awash with gratitude. It felt like the first time she had really looked at him, seen him for the true strength of his character. Martin would have held that look on her face forever if he could have.

The flustered Nulby was uncertain on how to handle the situation, so he defaulted to managerial lecturing. Look, I don’t know who was at fault and I don’t really care. I’ve been getting heat from the home office about customer service and I need everyone to be on their absolute best behavior. Are you guys hearing me?

There were nods all around, and then the intercom crackled summoning Nulby to the front. He left in a hurry and without issuing Allison a write-up, all thanks to Martin’s heroic intervention. To show her appreciation, Allison drew close and graced him with a touch of her lily-white hand.

    Thank you Martin, she said. That was very sweet.

    Yeah, good looking out Marty, Jeremy piped in.

Allison turned on a dime, scalding him with her glare. You were some big help. The sarcasm dripped from her mouth like blood from a wound. Thanks for having my back.

    What was I supposed to do? Jeremy shot back defensively. Did you expect me to lie?

Allison folded her arms in a huff of disappointment as Jeremy continued to stammer out selfish excuses. As much as he enjoyed seeing Jeremy squirm, Martin ducked back into the aisles and left the lovers to play out their quarrel. He could still hear them fighting all the way back at the rabbit hutches, and it gave him a thrill that carried through the end of his shift.

It wasn’t until he was home, standing before the diorama, that Martin realized that the day’s events had played out much as they had in miniature the night before. Not to the letter exactly; there hadn't been an actual robbery (though Martin has his suspicions about Nulby) and the incident had not, sadly, ended in violence. But there were definite parallels to be drawn, and it didn’t take a wild imagination to spot them.

Of course that’s ridiculous, Martin told himself. The diorama has no real power. Still, that night, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Martin fell asleep believing that all was right in his world.

Come Friday’s switchover, Martin was in an uncommonly good mood. Nulby had been off his case all week, and he had added several buildings to the diorama with which he was especially pleased. Best of all, Allison and Jeremy had broken up, the exchanges between them reduced to clipped words and cold glances, and Martin swept into the void, attempting conversation with Allison whenever his courage would allow. He was surprised to find her somewhat receptive, and by that afternoon Martin was flushed with courage. Perhaps this was the day he would finally ask her out.

Arriving at the grooming center, he found Allison wrestling with a disgruntled Great Dane. The dog was in no mood for a nail-clipping and was giving poor Allison a devil of a time, scrabbling on the tile and snapping at her with its great foamy jaws. Like a true hero Martin stepped in to assist, and after some effort he and Allison managed to muzzle the beast and lift it up onto to the stainless steel grooming gurney. Then, with the quick application of a noose-like restraining leash, the monster was secured.  

    You’re good with animals, Allison remarked with a smile. Maybe you should ask to be trained on grooming.

    Maybe I will, said Martin, readying himself to make his big move. Then a loathsome voice shattered the spell, destroying every ounce of his confidence.

    Tapeworm, Nulby spat. What the hell are you doing there behind the counter?

Martin turned to see his faux-hawked nemesis standing just outside the glassed-off grooming booth. I was just helping Allison out, Martin said, hating the simpering tone of his own voice. I’m on my way back to the floor right now.

Before Nulby could open his stupid mouth to respond, the Great Dane emitted a low gurgle that Martin assumed was just a growl of discomfort. But then the poor creature let loose its nervous bowels and spewed forth a putrid spray of diarrhea, coating the table and the front of Martin’s store-mandated khakis. He didn’t even have time to register the full extent of the mess before Nulby erupted into stabbing gales of laughter.

    Oh, you’re helping alright. The prick was savoring this shit-soaked humiliation for all it was worth. I tell you what – you keep right on helping and clean up this mess. Then I want you back in the stockroom. I can’t have customers seeing you like that.

Nulby was still laughing as he sauntered off, a cocky spring in his step. Allison gave Martin a bemused look of pity. Don't sweat it, this happens all the time.

And maybe that was true. But as she went for some handy-wipes, and Martin felt his chance with Allison exiting as swiftly as the