Monster Box: Tales

By Michael Donovan Horn

Visceral, bone-chilling horror designed to steal your sleep and churn your guts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543938807

Book preview

©2018 Michael Donovan Horn. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-54393-879-1 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-54393-880-7 (ebook)

Contents

Quay

Bedtime Story

The Faithful

Safe Word

About the Author

She’s a Dracula

The Nature of Things

Broken Wand

For Kelly.

- M.D.H.

Open up the monster box

take a look inside

It’s too late

You let them out

And now you cannot hide.

Quay

The ocean spray kept sneaking up the sawtooth cliffs and across Deakins’ windshield, forcing him to run the wiper blades more times than he wished to count. The aroma was steaming like something rotten and abandoned. He would’ve avoided the brine altogether, but the cliffs were the fastest route to Antioch.

Maybe it was his mother’s long-ago words that had guided him there: What the ocean lacks in memory, it makes up for in secrets. Deakins had no secrets. Only a cavernous hole where his soul should’ve been. He’d been driving city-to-city, soiled fast food bags and splotched coffee cups as his companions. He’d seen much but gathered nothing. New York’s mossy park had not filled the chasm in his gut, nor had Chicago’s iron steeples. Wyoming’s barren and burned landscapes were nothing to recall at a later date. The emptiness in him widened when it should’ve shrank. He carried nothing important, no prized possessions and no sought-after knowledge, lost across his forefathers’ countryside. The thought that the sea knew what he didn’t made him glower at the waves, praying the steady roil would at least bring him peace and serenity. Or perhaps a secret or two.

His path dipped as the Rock Island Diner materialized within the tree line. It was a shack at best, dropped in the sand as if by a gigantic child tired of its plaything. Vehicles colonized the gravel lot; the miniscule settlement comprised of dusty cars and beaten trucks. The roof was several shingles light and the sign on top was awash with radiant sunset, strips of canvas torn free and fluttering. The ocean’s border sat fifty feet down the sandy slope, primrose clouds reflected across the watery surface like Chinese fishing boats.

Deakins climbed out of his four-door rust box. The surf’s breeze made his skin slither. His jeans seemed to dampen.

He trudged across the shifting salmon tundra until he stood at the edge of the waves. The water was black, empty for miles; the only sound a soft frothing against his toes. Deakins gathered the wetness in his jaw and spit on the water. He watched his saliva melt into the dark fathoms. Warm amber light glowed from the diner windows. It caressed him as he trudged up the hill and entered the eatery.

The place reeked of grease. Black and white checked tile blanketed the floor, smeared by years of spilled beer and scattered honey sand. The booths were rigid red plastic. The specials were scribbled in scarlet chalk on a tattered sandwich board above the bar, chairs and stools topped with cracked leather. Fifty years ago, the place had been a diamond. Now it was a hunk of stone rolled in muck. It was as if someone had dismantled a decayed, shipwrecked schooner, cut it to bits and used them to fashion the tables and bar. Deakins thought about shifting his legs into reverse, but his fatigue and the oncoming darkness made him wary. If need be, he could slurp coffee all night and hunt down a reasonable bed in the morning.

He pulled up a stool at the end of the bar. There were jars filled with white and black stones. Strictly ambiance.

Get you something, hon?

She was telephone pole thin, her tight bust strapped in a black apron. She gnashed her bubblegum with ivory teeth, brown curls escaping the bun on her head. Her nametag – reading Peggy! - hung crookedly, hastily pinned in place.

Coffee, he exhaled.

That it?

For now. Thanks.

The diner door swung open. A lanky man in a charcoal suit knifed his way inside. His pin-sized eyes stuck in his pasty complexion like raisins in dough as he blew past Deakins on his way to a barstool.

Hey, Walt, hailed Peggy.

Walt stuck out a hand and Peggy filled it with a plastic menu. His raisins perused it. He pointed to his choice. Chicken fried steak and veggies. Peggy nodded, scrawling down the order as if she’d already written half of it. Walt aimed a finger at the bathroom behind the tables. Before the waitress could acknowledge, he was off, coattail flapping as his stick legs transported him like an impatient mantis.

What’s his problem? asked Deakins.

Hmm? Peggy said.

Didn’t say one word. Guy’s a dick.

Peggy half-grinned. Walt’s no dick. He’s special.

Deakins watched Walt vanish inside the restroom. Peggy scooted down the bar, passing a bear of a man in his fifties. White-bearded, Royals cap on his crown as he shoveled runny eggs in his mouth. Probably a truck owner.

Doing okay, John?

John swallowed hard, giving her a quick nod.

Deakins glanced around. A young couple inhabited a booth, gulping down chocolate pie and smiling euphorically. An overweight mother sat at a table, poured into a burgundy tracksuit and commanding her pudgy child to eat her green beans. The strident ding of a bell rang out, yanking Deakins’ eyes to the window behind the bar. A drained man with hair the color of oil set cherry pie on the sill.

Pie’s up, Peggy! he chimed as cheerfully as he could.

Merci, Ricky, the waitress sang, snatching it up. She relinquished it in front of John, who pushed his empty plate aside and dug in as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Peggy approached Deakins with a steaming mug. She set it down with a wink. Here you are, sailor. As he curled his fingers around the porcelain, she was gone.

Deakins had sampled twenty coffees from twenty states. This stuff was goddamn morose. He’d asked for coffee and what he’d gotten was dishwater somebody scooped out of a soaking steak pan. Still, it was hot. And it would keep him alert.

He noticed the girls on the third sip.

Three of them, to his left. Propped on their stools like finches on a branch. Strange he hadn’t seen them on his way in. It was defeatist to call them blonde. All three had a hue closer to white. It hung down their shoulders like solidified moonbeam. The closest girl wore a china blue turtleneck and mocha slacks. The middle one was clad in a maroon blouse, her skirt the color of ripe tomatoes in summer. The last girl flaunted a peach sundress spotted with pistachio blossoms. Wicker sandals encased the delicate feet of all three. A glass of flat water sat before each of them. China Blue lifted hers, sipping slowly as if savoring the taste. The other two stared, deep in some serene, fathomless thought.

College girls.

Peggy leaned in front of Deakins, casting a trademark half-smile toward the moon-haired patrons. He lowered his mug.

What?

Hippies. Up here on some mission. She leaned close and he smelled her tangy, lemon-scented perfume. Heard them talking. About the ‘state of the sea.’

State of the what?

The sea. Activists, honey. She shook her head. Weird kids if you ask me. Need a refill?

Soon. Don’t worry.

His reply pulled a grin from her as she galloped back down the bar. Deakins choked down the watery excuse and resumed his leering. Peggy was right. The girls did seem...off. They were also goddamn gorgeous.

Deakins hopped a few beds as he hopped the states. He’d been with a variety. A dancer in Texas, a real estate brunette from Illinois. He wasn’t prejudiced when it came to the opposite sex. One may not be as cute as another, but they all had the same nooks and crannies. China Blue, Tomato Skirt and Peaches, however, were, by behavior and mouth-watering bodies, something completely different.

The young couple was smooching like zoo camels. The fat little girl was demanding dessert as Rick twirled his spatula with sweaty digits. Peggy appeared from the back, a fresh cherry pie in one hand and a silver blade in the other. Deakins watched her set the pie in front of Trucker John and slice through the sugary crust, her breasts softly jiggling with each stroke of her arm. He brought the mug to his lips again, opened his mouth, ready for the heat.

He heard the humming.

The soft sound seemed to caress the air. Deakins lowered his mug, ensnared by the tune. He searched his brain to identify it but couldn’t. In fact, its soothing charm made him forget his brain altogether.

The tones originated from Tomato Skirt’s luminescent throat. China Blue joined in, contributing an alto harmony. Peaches followed suit, another octave higher. The humming took on a haunting quality, embraced by their flawless rhythm and pitch. Peggy’s arm ceased sawing, her and John’s eyes fixed on the three. Their voices invaded the ears of the couple. Wandered across the diner until the little one and her track-suited mother were also listening. Deakins’ coffee was an abandoned thing as their mouths opened and their graceful lyrics began:

"Come list ye landsman all to me,

to tell the truth I’m bound...

What happened to me by going to sea

and the wonders that I found..."

Nausea gripped Deakins. His heart became a vicious bulldog in a crate, pumping a marathon despite his stillness. His veins throbbed, threatening to burst open and let his own blood drown him. He grabbed the bar’s edge, the sickness overtaking him. It was something he’d never felt. Strong. Unyielding. His body tensed as the three continued their lullaby:

"Shipwrecked I was one sappy rouse

and cast all on the shore...

So I resolved to take a cruise

the country to explore..."

Deakins’ skin was on fire. His organs were burning, one in particular; his cock was rock hard, pressing against the zipper of his jeans, fighting to get out, to breathe. Peggy and the patrons were frozen in place, enraptured by the tri-tone melody. Deakins battled to remain upright, clutching the edge of the bar, head gyrating.

The girls were looking at him with deep, cerulean blue eyes. Their skins seem to glow. Their wet, luscious mouths opened and closed together in time, the tune brimming:

"Up aloft the wind was high

It blew hard from the south...

I lost my hold and away I fell

into a crocodile’s mouth..."

The knife was gleaming and sleek in Peggy’s freckled fist, shining like a star. There was a wrenching in Deakins’ soul. A thirst to be slaked. The blade was smiling. Beseeching him to hold it. Begging to play with him like a giggling child...

He yanked it from Peggy’s hand, the waitress oblivious. Somehow, she hadn’t seen it happen. Deakins gripped the handle, his body aflame, loins raw with lust. The girls rose from their perches. They stood side by side, overlooking the diner, crooning their song like worshipping priestesses:

"He quickly closed his jaws on me,

he thought to nab a victim...

and I slipped down his throat, d’ye see

my eyes how he did lick them..."

Deakins’ arm moved on its own, sliding the blade into Peggy’s throat. The waitress squeak-shouted, the surprise and pain breaking the spell. Deakins sawed, cutting across her windpipe. Crimson sputtered down her chest, caking his wrist and forearm. The horror of what he’d done hit Deakins like a belt to the face, yet he couldn’t stop himself from heaving the knife deep into John’s belly. The bearded man yelped and Deakins hacked him to pieces, stabbing and slashing until the Royals fan’s raw organs dumped on the linoleum, the intestines slithering like snakes in their own juices.

The girls increased their volume, following Deakins across the room as he descended on the young couple. Tears trickled from his eyes as he drove the steel through the man’s right eye. His body jerked, a toy in a blender. Deakins pulled free, slices and chunks of brain smeared on the steel, and brought the knife down on the woman as she broke into a feeble run. The blade caught her across the back, burrowing deep and severing her spine in one stroke. She dropped like a sandbag, red oozing. Her body limp on the tile, she sobbed until Deakins bore down on her, stabbing her in the back over and over. The woman’s sobs turned to choking and a lake of blood hid the black and white beneath them.

The mother held her wailing child tight as Rick raced out of the kitchen brandishing a baseball bat. He swung at Deakins, who took the blow without pause. The wood cracked like a ship mast, breaking in two, the top spiraling across the floor. Deakins leapt to his feet, weeping and foaming at the mouth. Rick threw a right and Deakins drove the blade through it. The cook howled, falling back over a table. Silverware and saltshakers clattered to the floor. The girl’s song continued, never wavering:

"To my ri tol tooral loralido,

ritol looral lay...

to my ri tol lol fol liddle lol de fol

to my fol looral lay..."

Rick gripped the knife handle and pulled it free with a nauseating squelch. Deakins’ heart was drumming, his head thumping, his skin like a lobster’s. He straddled Rick’s waist. Brought his fist down on the cook’s head like a cannonball. Rick lashed about beneath him, fighting back with his good hand. Deakins took the blows, undaunted as he delivered his own, each more savage than the last, and soon Deakins heard what sounded like eggs cracking. Rick’s face had turned to bone and blood and gristle. Deakins fought to breathe, his lungs filled with smoke. His eyes met the large mother’s and she screamed and hugged her daughter with no hope of escape. Deakins sobbed, void of any control as he scooped the blade out of the blood, zombie-like. The girls followed him as he staggered towards the mother and daughter, blood stained from head to toe. He wailed like a baby. Unable to stop. Unable to scream regrets or any ounce of resistance.

The little one called for her mother as Deakins brought the knife down. Their screams were lost in song.

...the wind that blows, the ship that goes...

Deakins’ eyes peeled themselves open. He felt heavy as a ship. As his vision adapted, he looked down and saw he was naked. His chest throbbed, as did his legs. His arms most of all, which were stretched above him, his wrists tied with coarse rope. The rope, in turn, was attached to the ceiling. He was dangling, a worm on a hook. His spine was twisted wire and, much to his chagrin, his dick was straight and true, staring up at him in some kind of heated expectation.

...By the standing toast that pleased the most...

The diner was an opera of carnage. The patrons he had unwillingly murdered were strung upside down by their feet. Their skin was flayed back to expose bloody raw muscle. Winks of bone here and there where the meat had been harvested. The internal cavities were hollowed out, organs removed. A sea of blood collected under their ivory sockets and slack jawbones.

...the wind that blows, the ship that goes...

The walls were splattered with visceral patterns, Deakins’ violent work staring him in the face. He quivered at the tiny skeleton in the back. The child, like her mother, relived of her girth. Peggy and Rick swayed side by side like slaughtered cows. John and the couple had their own row.

...the wind that blows, the ship that goes...and the lass that loves a sailor...

The three of them appeared among the bodies, their creamy, naked skin tainted with smears and splotches. Their breasts were firm and round. Perfect. Their smooth bellies led downward to hairless, puckering sexes. They reminded Deakins of the girls he had at school, young and faultless. But their heavenly figures were skewed by the agelessness of their eyes and the blood lacquered on their mouths. Deakins felt a throttling in his groin as China Blue treaded through the horror, gummy entrails dragged along by her feet. Her wispy fingers fondled his cheek. Deakins felt his anus spasm, the feeling shockingly delightful.

Hello, sailor, she warbled.

Deakins’ screams ricocheted off the walls. China Blue and Peaches giggled in tinkly unison. Tomato Skirt wetly