Creepies 3: Creepies, #3

By WP aD, Mandy White, Chris Benedict and 11 more

A bloodthirsty refrigerator…

A murderous pothole…

Legends of mysterious monsters…

Ghosts and magic…

And much more!

Chilling stories from the twisted minds of Writers, Poets and Deviants:

Volume 3 of WPaD's popular Creepies series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WPaD Publications
• Release date: Jun 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393524434

Book preview

Creepies 3

Nightmares on Deviant Street

By WPaD

(Writers, Poets and Deviants)

Copyright © 2019 WPaD Publications,

acting publisher Mandy White, and all authors named in this book.

All Rights Reserved

All stories and poetry in this book remain the property of their respective authors. No individual or agency other than those named may reproduce, copy or publish any part of this book in full or in part, in any medium printed or digital, without the expressed permission of the owner(s) of those works.

Cover art by Jason Kemp of Tenkara Studios, Toronto, Ontario

A special heartfelt thank-you to Jason Kemp for his tireless work designing the cover, which features his own hand-drawn art.

Spectacular work, Jason! Words cannot express how much we appreciate your talent and your valuable contribution to this book.

All our love,

The Authors of WPaD

Table of Contents

Piggy Piggy by Lea Anne Guettler

Just a Pothole by Michael Haberfelner

1903 by Diana Garcia

Blind Trust by Mandy White

Company by Soleil Daniels

Chloe’s Face by Juliette Kings

The Harvestman by Chris Benedict

Retired Mare by Molly Roland

Connections by Mike Cooley

Beauty by Soleil Daniels

A Stitch in Time by Mandy White

Friends Forever by Marla Todd

Leo’s Hell Gate by Diana Garcia

P B & J by Soleil Daniels

Cross Lake by R. James Turley

The Interment of Olive Swansea by David Hunter

Luther by Juliette Kings

Holocaust by Alfred Lord Towers Hartfordshire

Standing By by Amy Karian

Don’t Stop by Mandy White

Transmute by Mike Cooley

The Naw-ta-wee-nee Legend by Chris Benedict

Sugar Doll by Michael Haberfelner

Fall Garden by Marla Todd

Diana’s Despair by Diana Garcia

The Rise of Haciatetas by Debra Lamb

Mesachie Man by Mandy White

Waiting Room Window by Molly Roland

Gone in a Flicker by Amy Karian

Pizza Night by Lea Anne Guettler

Sleep by Soleil Daniels

Ancient Wings by Mike Cooley

Special Feature: Eater of Eyes by Mike Cooley

Books by WPaD

Meet the Authors

Piggy Piggy

By Lea Anne Guettler

GODDAMMIT, CHUCK SWORE, shoving his finger in his mouth. He tasted cheese grease, pepperoni grease, and blood. He sucked angrily at the wound and inspected his pizza. These were the last four slices. He’d been saving them all day for his after dinner, before movie snack. If any of them had blood on them...well, he’d eat them anyway, but it would be gross.

No visible bodily fluids on the pizza, thank god. Clots of tomato sauce on the pizza cutter, so it was impossible to tell if he’d bled on it. Oh well, protein anyway.

Chuck sucked the grease off his other fingers for good measure, then turned and opened the fridge.

Hey, piggy piggy, the fridge sang. Oink, oink, oink!

Chuck ignored it. Phil from work gave him that stupid thing for Christmas two years ago, a white elephant thing. Ha ha, he’d said, thought you’d get a kick out of it, bro. Chuck had forced the grin and chuckle expected of the jolly fat guy. Lord knows why he’d bothered installing the thing. Maybe he thought he would actually get a kick out of it. Or, maybe, deep in his cholesterol-choked heart, he hoped he’d finally found the thing that would shame him into thinness.

Chuck grabbed a can of Coke, hesitated, and grabbed a handful of Hershey’s kisses. As he pulled his hand back, he noticed a small dot of blood on the shelf, next to the line of Cokes. He glanced at his injured finger. It glistened wetly at him, like a lewd smile.

Okay, okay, he muttered. I’ll get you a band-aid already.

He nudged the fridge door closed with his fleshy hip and put his Coke and kisses on the counter, next to the plate of rapidly cooling pizza. As he trundled into the bathroom, the fridge kicked on with an odd chudding noise. That’s all he’d need, for the fridge to conk out on him when he’d just bought all that ice cream. Half off Ben & Jerry’s is a once-a-year screaming deal, make no mistake.

Chuck ran cold water over the cut. It stung, but not too badly. He dried his finger carefully with a clean towel, dabbed it with some disinfectant cream, then wrapped it in the largest band-aid he could find. Then he wiped the countertop with the towel and folded it neatly.

All better? he asked his finger. Can I eat now?

The finger didn’t answer, which Chuck took as a yes.

Back in the kitchen, he looked longingly at the congealed pizza.

Ah, sorry about that, lovey, he said. But as long as you’re already cold, I might as well clean up the mess in the fridge. Just give me a minute.

He wet a sponge and opened the fridge again. He bent over a little, peering at the shelf of Cokes.

Huh.

He shuffled the Coke cans around a little.

Huh. I could have sworn...

He shuffled them back into line. The fridge’s chudding slowed to a groan, then stopped.

Eh. Chuck kicked the door shut again and tossed the damp sponge back into the sink. Now, lovey, he crooned, turning to the pizza. Let’s see about getting you hot again.

CHUCK WOKE THE NEXT morning in his recliner, the TV remote clutched loosely in one hand, a pile of Hershey’s kiss wrappers glittering in his lap. He yawned and stretched, careful not to let any wrappers fall to the floor. He gathered them up into a ball, which he dropped into an empty Coke can on the table next to him. He gathered his feet under him and, after only a couple of attempts, managed to haul himself out of the chair.

Hey, piggy piggy. Oink, oink, oink!

Oh, be quiet. Chuck cracked open a Coke and drank half of it in one long slug. Caffeine, mornings, same old drill. He peeled off the band-aid and squinted at the cut. It seemed better, hardly hurt at all.

His stomach rumbled.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Cheesy eggs with sausage? Excellent.

He busied himself with breakfast.

Afterwards, a pleasant burp on his lips, he gathered his dishes and deposited them in the soapy water. He took his pill organizer from the shelf above the sink and shook the day’s rations into his hand. Blood pressure, cholesterol, gout, thyroid, multivitamin. He picked up a glass and headed to the fridge for some ice water so they could start working their magic on his body.

Chuck set the glass under the ice dispenser and pressed the button. The machine rumbled, but no ice clinked out.

Come on, now, baby, Chuck said. Just relax. He jabbed the button again, but again, no ice.

First the fridge with that chudding sound, now the ice dispenser. He mentally calculated the cost of a new refrigerator and wrinkled his nose. People lived just fine for centuries without automatic ice dispensers, Chuck supposed he could live without it for a while himself.

He put the glass and pills on the counter, careful to keep the pills from rolling to the floor. Then he pulled the freezer open and reached his hand into the reservoir of the ice maker. It had frozen into a solid mass. He shook the tray, trying to loosen just one or two little cubes, but no luck. Chuck growled. He was the human being here, he was in charge. No way he’d let a machine get the better of him. There might be some cubes that hadn’t been dumped out yet. He scrabbled at the metal mechanism in increasing frustration. He strained to reach up past the indicator bar into the tray. His fingertips brushed the tops of the ice.

The fridge motor picked that moment to kick on. Something in the ice maker shifted and caught Chuck’s hand. He yanked it, but some unseen gear or sprocket pinned it painfully in place. Maybe his band-aid had gotten caught on something? Chuck twisted his hand, not yet numb enough to hide the sensation of tearing flesh. The chudding seemed to get louder.

Chuck panicked. He threw his considerable weight backward in a desperate attempt to free himself. For a single wild moment, he thought it wasn’t going to give, and he was going to die in his kitchen, like his mother always said he would. Only she probably never imagined it would be with his hand stuck in an ice maker.

Then it did give, with a pain that lit up his arm all the way to the shoulder. He stumbled backward, his arms pinwheeling for balance, blood droplets spraying in an arc. He hit the floor ass-first, hard, momentum pulling him onto his back. His head cracked on the linoleum and, thankfully, he passed out.

...OINK!

Chuck opened his eyes, against strongly worded advice from his throbbing brain. The light was all wrong, like it was coming from too many places, casting an odd assortment of shadows. A wave of nausea washed over him, so he closed them again.

Ermf, he said to the ceiling.

He did a mental inventory of his various pains. Head, yeah, could be concussion but at least he was conscious. There was a vague ache in his lower back, nothing serious—he’d had worse after a night on a bad mattress. Reluctantly he turned his attention to his hand. It seemed to be frozen and dipped in lava at the same time. He gritted his teeth and rolled his head the side, bending his elbow and cracking one eye to survey the damage.

At first Chuck thought he’d dipped his right arm in paint, it was so uniformly red. Closer inspection with both eyes revealed a huge purple clot running down the back of his hand. No way to tell exactly what he was dealing with until he’d cleaned that up a bit.

Brrm. He lowered his hand back to the floor with a grimace. How does this even happen? The scene replayed itself in his head: reaching for the ice, the motor kicking on, the ice maker clamping down on his hand, almost like it—

Bit me. The words hung in the air.

Hey, piggy piggy. Oink oink oink!

Chuck peered over his nose toward the fridge. Both doors stood open, though Chuck couldn’t remember opening the fridge. Maybe he’d pulled it open on his way down the Ass-Plant Express.

The glow from the fridge bulb flared slightly in time with the chudding motor. Chuck found himself staring at the pulsing light through half-closed eyes, hypnotized by the gentle rhythm. It made everything in the fridge look pretty, the way it shone through the jello cups and jars of pickles, all those colors. Even the noise of the motor was soothing. Chuck thought how nice it would be to just slip off to sleep for a while. He could deal with all this nonsense later. He let his mind drift off . . .

Get your fat ass off the floor, piggy piggy. Oink mother fucking oink.

What the heck? Chuck’s eyes flew open. Definitely concussion. Had to get up, clean up, maybe get to the hospital. He struggled to roll over enough to use his good hand to help himself sit up. His head swam but he held on to consciousness long enough to get himself on his feet.

Low blood sugar, that’s what it is, he muttered. He reached out a hand toward the fridge for a snack, just a little pick me up to hold him over until lunch. The light swelled up and held, like the fridge was holding its breath. Without knowing why, Chuck hesitated. No reason he couldn’t have some Doritos. He swung the door shut instead, followed by the freezer door. The fridge motor abruptly cut off in mid chud.

Don’t you pout at me, Mister, Chuck said, not quite looking at it. He picked a bag of chips from the pantry and took the long way out of kitchen, around the island, as far from the fridge as possible.

ONE BAG OF CHIPS AND half a package of Twinkies later, Chuck had cleaned up his hand enough to see the real damage: a four-inch-long strip of skin had been removed, the world’s worst hangnail. It hurt like hell to get that clot off, but the wound itself didn’t seem too deep. Chuck dabbed it with antibiotic cream and wrapped it in ancient gauze from the battered first aid kit he’d found buried under his mother’s old towels in the bathroom closet. He washed down a few Advil with the warm, flat dregs of last night’s Coke.

His head felt better too. Tender to the touch, but the swimminess was gone. It was the chips that did the trick. He’d always been susceptible to low blood sugar, even as a kid, so he’d learned to cope with it. He almost felt good enough to attempt the chore of cleaning up the kitchen.

Almost.

He changed his clothes, wincing as he pushed his bandaged hand through a fresh sleeve. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, recombed his hair a different way, put on his slippers, and took off his slippers, then puttered around the living room for a bit, rearranging pillows and straightening the curtains. Finally ran out of things to delay the inevitable and turned to the kitchen.

He poked his head through the doorway. The room was quiet, the fridge hulking silently in the corner. Chuck stood in the doorway for a long time, waiting, but nothing happened. Well, what did he think was going to happen?

Bit me.

No, it didn’t bite him. It was a refrigerator, for crying out loud, not a monster from a storybook. He’d gotten his hand stuck in a machine, that’s all, nothing to see here, move along.

Bit me.

Chuck realized he’d been holding his breath, and let it out in a whoosh. No more fooling around. The blood was already mostly dry. Good thing he’d never replaced the original linoleum with hardwood, like his mother had wanted him to do. He sighed and got the bucket and mop.

It was slow going, what with the aching hand in a stiff bandage and all. After the floor, he’d wiped down the walls and pantry door, both of which had suffered a light sprinkling. Thank goodness none had made it as far as the ceiling.

All that was left was the freezer itself.

Chuck, breathing heavily from mopping exertion, couldn’t shake his profound reluctance to open that freezer again. Part of it was not wanting to pick his own skin out of the ice maker, but that wasn’t all of it. Not even close.

The fridge’s continued silence was like a solid thing in the room. The doors had both been open who knows how long, while he was unconscious. Shouldn’t the motor be working overtime to bring the temperature back down? To refreeze all his screaming-deal Cherry Garcia?

The thought of his ice cream in the same freezer as his strip of skin got Chuck moving. He slipped his good left hand into an oven mitt, like a gauntlet. In his right, he clutched a pair of barbeque tongs. The plan was: open the door with the mitted hand, pull out the skin with the tongs, close the door, and drop the skin into the waiting garbage can. He didn’t want to touch anything he didn’t absolutely have to.

Chuck stood there a moment, staring at the freezer door, acutely aware that his poor heart was racing dangerously close to arrythmia territory. He gulped.

I’m not afraid of you, he said, and he almost believed it.

He yanked open the door and stared inside, jaw hanging open.

Nothing there. Well, nothing that shouldn’t be there. Ice cream, frozen pizzas, Hot Pockets? All there. Skin? Not there. Not even a drop of blood.

Chuck poked experimentally at the ice maker with the tongs. When nothing happened, he leaned in closer to get a better look.

CHUDCHUDCHUD

He screamed and slammed the door.

CHUCK DIDN’T DARE GO back to the kitchen. The chudding stopped hours ago, but no matter how loud his stomach grumbled, he refused to leave his recliner. He sat for hours, staring at Golden Girls reruns blaring on the TV, his mind miles away in the kitchen. Night fell, shadows grew and deepened, yet still Chuck sat. His bandaged fist clutched the forgotten barbeque tongs.

The TV switched from Golden Girls to Night Court at ten, then to I Love Lucy at midnight, then off completely at two. Without the laugh track, Chuck slipped into a doze.

Hey, piggy piggy. Oink oink oink!

Chuck jerked awake, his heart skipping about a dozen beats before trying to climb out his throat. His eyes bugged out in the dark...but it wasn’t quite dark. No, there was a definite glow coming from the kitchen.

No, he moaned. No, I won’t.

Hey, piggy piggy, the fridge beckoned.

Chuck wept. His hunger was huge inside him, low blood sugar making him weak. The tongs fell to the floor and stood up against his own will. He shuffled toward the kitchen, drawn by thoughts of a huge ham and swiss sandwich swimming in mayonnaise, cupcakes with mile-high frosting, and a gallon of whole chocolate milk. He could almost taste it.

Chuck walked through the kitchen doorway as if in a trance. He moaned. The fridge stood open like a welcome embrace, its light warm and inviting.

Hey, piggy piggy, it cooed.

Oink oink oink, Chuck whispered. He dropped to his knees on the linoleum, bathing in the soft glow flowing out of the chilly depths. Drool slid down his chin and he didn’t even care.

Then he saw what he wanted, what he needed, all the way at the back: a triple-decker bacon cheeseburger. He inched forward on his knees, reached back, past the rows of Coke cans, his gut pressed against the edge of the shelf, engulfing it.

The burger disappeared the instant his bandaged hand closed on it. Chuck felt only dull surprise when the door slammed shut on his back with unbelievable force. Something crunched in a profoundly final way.

Bit me, he said, as the chudding began.

SANDI EMERGED FROM the laundry room, tapping her clipboard with the back of her pen. Ah! she exclaimed. Kitchen!

Thank god this listing was easy. She had two more to get to this afternoon. If she got this one done fast enough, she’d have enough time to stop by the juice bar for a wheat grass turmeric smoothie before heading over to that foreclosure over on 7th.

Her sensible heels clicked across the linoleum. She turned the kitchen sink on and off, then checked a box on her clipboard. She opened the dishwasher, peered inside, and closed it again: another check. She cranked the knobs on the stove and recorded that all four burners did, indeed, light up.

She turned to the fridge. Old, like the rest of the place, but looked serviceable enough. Sandi pulled open both doors.

Hey, piggy piggy. Oink oink oink!

She jumped, then tutted at the pig-shaped device sitting on the second shelf. She’d seen a lot in her few short years as a real estate agent, but this was a first. Well, it clearly had to go. No one would buy a house with one of those things in the fridge.

When she reached a hand in to grab it, the motor sprang to life. She flinched, dropping the pig and hitting her hand on the bracket holding up the top shelf. It opened a small cut on the ball of her thumb, just enough to draw blood.

The fridge shuddered.

Just a Pothole

By Michael Haberfelner

A WHAT, A MURDER? Sheriff Houghton couldn’t believe a single word his young deputy was telling him right when he arrived back at the office after his well-deserved three week fishing vacation. Here, in Clarksville?

Yep. A pretty gruesome one, too. Deputy Parker handed him the file, hoping this would spare her recounting all the macabre details, but no such luck. Of course, she should have known, Houghton was never strong on reading.

Gruesome, eh?

Yep, we found the victim encased in the concrete of the suspect’s driveway ...

Now hold on a bit, why would you even look there?

Fact is, we wouldn’t have – but the victim’s nose was sticking out of a pothole.

Come again?

Yep, a pothole, smack in the middle of the newly built driveway.

A treacherous pothole then.

"Yep, a bit like The Tell-Tale Heart."

The blank expression in Houghton’s eyes told Parker the Edgar Allan Poe allusion went totally over his head.

You know what’s the punch line though? The victim was the very contractor tasked with building that driveway.

Get the fuck out of here! And what do we know about the suspect?

The suspect is one ... Parker picked up the file again and opened it to jog her memory. One Nathaniel Dickson ...

Nat? Houghton seemed gob-smacked for a moment, then he grabbed the file from his deputy to give it a look-over. Surprise was written all over his face.

You know that guy?

Everybody knows Nat. He’s only the nicest guy in town. Couldn’t hurt a fly if it pointed a gun at him. There must be a mistake.

"Frankly, I don’t think so. Basically he has as good