Tales from the Hearse

By David Allen Voyles

"Virgil Nightshade is an expert storyteller, mixing the local supernatural lore and a bit of theatrics with a stage magician's flare to create a sophisticated carnival ride. All while riding in a hearse." - TripAdvisor ReviewIn Tales from the Hearse, David Allen Voyles evokes his past role as Virgil Nightshade, the storyteller and ghost tour host, with this collection of thirteen stories of the macabre. One can easily imagine riding in the back of his 1972 Cadillac hearse through a spooky graveyard listening to him tell his tales of horror just as his customers did in Asheville, NC. If you love ghost stories, haunted houses, and walks through the graveyard, climb in the hearse and take a dark ride with David Allen Voyles. Just make sure your doors are locked.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gestalt Media
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951535216

Book preview

For Ann and Josh.

Thanks for believing in me, the ghost in the loft.

Table of Contents

PREFACE  X

One More Offering  1

An Unspoken Wish  15

Tag  43

Matinee Special  69

Just Retribution  89

That Halloween Night  117

A Dream NOT Deferred  137

Crazy Mary  151

The Open Crypt  171

The Bubák  183

An Extravaganza of a Lifetime   209

A Graveyard Dare    227

The Gray Man   251

A Word from the Author

About the Author

Preface

THE TITLE Tales from the Hearse begs an explanation. You might wonder if I was intentionally playing off the classic EC comic Tales from the Crypt.

Well, maybe. A little bit. With only the greatest respect. I love the comic book and the movies it spawned. But there's something more personal about the title for me.

For three years I told stories to horror-loving fans in the back of a 1972 Cadillac hearse while escorting them to various haunted sites near my home in Western North Carolina. As of this writing, I still have the hearse even though I rarely take it out on the road anymore. I have, though, video-recorded a few stories in my role as Virgil Nightshade from the hearse which you can find on YouTube. Search for Tales from the Hearse with David Allen Voyles if you want to see what that experience was like.

In compiling a second collection of original horror stories, it seemed only natural to invoke the spirit of the hearse that has given me an experience of a lifetime and inspired me to continue creating more horrifying tales. To tell the truth, only one of the stories in this book, Crazy Mary, was one I told on the ghost tours. And it appears within these pages as a reworked version, one with a new, darker twist that I could not have told on a family-friendly ghost tour.

So where did the other stories originate if not from the ghost tours?

Several of them came from yarns I spun to entertain guests at my family's traditional Halloween party. Three of those I recorded as a private podcast for our 2019 event; guests listened to them on their phones as they viewed exhibits inside the house and in the yard (and even on a creepy path in the surrounding woods) for each story. Our annual graveyard, updated that year with a projected image of the Grim Reaper rising among the coffins, served as the backdrop for A Graveyard Dare. Our downstairs den was turned into a spooky mausoleum for The Open Crypt. Two life-sized creepy clowns sat with me throughout the whole month of October in my writing loft as they ultimately became props for the set of An Extravaganza of a Lifetime. You can find photos of these scenes on my Facebook page if you care to search, as well as revised audio versions available to the public for free in my Dark Corners podcast.

I sincerely hope that the Halloween spirit which spawned those stories, a ghoulish playfulness, comes through here. They lack the depth and more serious tone of some of the other stories like One More Offering and The Gray Man, but I do like to mix things up in these story collections. By the way, there were more stories and scenes than the three appearing in this book for that party, and they might find their way into a second volume of Tales from the Hearse if there seems to be an interest. Reader feedback would be most welcome!

The story A Dream Deferred also has its origin in Halloween, for I wrote it for a puppet-themed Halloween party several years ago, one of several stories I prepared for our guests that were inspired by eerie puppet photos I found on the internet. I hope to include some of those stories in Volume 2 of TFTH as well.

And speaking of the internet, while I don't even want to think about the hours I've wasted falling down rabbit-holes while searching for something entirely different than what I originally had set out to find, stumbling across photos of La Isla de los Muñecas, the Island of the Dolls, gave me the idea for one of my own favorite stories. Finding out that there was an actual isolated location in Mexico where thousands of dolls hung from trees begged the question, Why would anyone do this? At that time, I didn't know the story behind it, so I wrote One More Offering. Turns out that my fictitious tale might not have been that far off from the truth.

More recently in my rambles through cyberspace I discovered a description of a scary, supernatural creature in the folklore of Slovakia and the Czech Republic which I absolutely loved—a scarecrow-like boogey man made of bones who wears a coat made from the souls of wicked children he came to punish! Who could resist creating a story about that? I brought the Slovak characters in my story to a farm in the US as I played with the idea that immigrants might bring their monsters with them when they travel from another country.

Of course, the US has its own rich history of ghost lore, and having vacationed for many years on the beaches of the Carolinas, I was thrilled with the myth of The Gray Man. The idea of this shadowy figure appearing as a harbinger of natural disaster fascinates me. When there's a storm at the beach, I love looking out at the sea and imagining a hooded, faceless figure cloaked in a long coat trudging along the surf under a threatening gray sky. But for The Gray Man, I wanted to make the story much more personal. The loss of a loved one can spawn grief as powerful and devastating as any hurricane.

As I suggested earlier, the stories in this collection cover a range of tones, from playful tales told on Halloween to more serious reflections on guilt and grief. Often what determines that tone is the voice of the narrator in each one. When I literally told stories from the hearse, I assumed the voice of Virgil Nightshade, a playful undertaker/grave robber whose backstory my guests did not need to know although having one helped me create a more realistic persona for them. In Tales from the Hearse, I experimented with different voices. One of the most challenging perhaps is that of the narrator of Just Retribution, for there I hoped to emulate the style of storytellers from earlier times. Modern readers often find that style challenging—too wordy—and are thus sadly put off from reading masters of weird tales, like H.P. Lovecraft, Henry James, H.G. Wells, and yes, even Edgar Allan Poe. While I don't flatter myself that I would ever be numbered in their ranks, I do offer that story as a tribute to what they accomplished and hope that you enjoy it.

I imagine a more youthful narrator in That Halloween Night, or at least a narrator remembering a time from his youth, and I incorporate into that story my tremendous appreciation for To Kill a Mockingbird. While Harper Lee's masterpiece is not horror, it does include a common theme in horror, the mistreatment of those considered outcasts in society. I doubt that Ms Lee cared for zombie stories, but hopefully, wherever she is now, she doesn't mind my borrowing Boo Radley for some inspiration.

In the story Tag I reached back into my own childhood to an iconic installation in a park my friends and I used to frequent as children. An old train locomotive had been placed in the park for the  youth to explore, something that would never be considered today in these litigious times. As often as I saw kids running, climbing, and sometimes falling all over it, I never heard of a single lawsuit as a result of a serious injury. As an adult and a parent, I now see the potential horror of that playground and serve it to you along with a huge slice of haunting childhood guilt. Not mine—don't worry. Imagined guilt. So eat up, everyone, and enjoy!

Large, old movie theaters are a recurring image for me, and while I thrill at the thought of them, they have actually haunted my dreams. Perhaps that fear comes from an experience I had as a child when my mother took me to a grand old movie theater, complete with ornate decorations and a balcony, to see—what movie, I can't even remember—and the theater went totally black before running an ad for Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? The announcer's ominous voice in that absolute blackness followed by the frightening images of a crazed Bette Davis was terrifying! And wonderful. I have little doubt that my memories of the Carolina Theater in Charlotte served as a model for both the theater described in Matinee Special in this collection, as well as the one that appears in Jackie's dream in The Christmas Present (from my first collection, The Thirteenth Day of Christmas and Other Tales of Yuletide Horror). If I ever do fulfill my lifelong dream of building a haunted attraction, you can rest assured it will have a haunted theater.

Those of you who have read The Christmas Present may also note the re-appearance of the Nightmare Box in An Unspoken Wish in this anthology. This new story is the second in what I hope will be a series of stories, perhaps comprising a comic book, that involve Professor Mephisto and his delivery of the nightmare-inducing box.

The observant reader may also catch the reference to Professor Mephisto in An Extravaganza of a Lifetime, whose Carnival of Ethereal Delights serves as a reverent nod to Mr. Dark and his Pandemonium Shadow Show in Ray Bradbury's wonderful novel Something Wicked This Way Comes. And attendees of my annual Halloween party will most certainly recognize the fictitious Hellton Hotel, the site of the party. I only wish my real home would transform every October to match its description in this story.

Now that I've told you a little of where these tales come from, why not climb into my hearse and take a dark ride with me as I tell you a few stories?

Careful! Looking out past the blood-red curtains of the hearse, you might see shadows of the undead approaching in the gloom as I tell you all about The Gray Man and That Halloween Night.

Listen! Under the deep rumble of the hearse's engine—is that a creaking door from The Open Crypt? Was that clanking chain the unlocking of a cemetery gate in A Graveyard Dare? Or maybe the closing of an old asylum door from Just Retribution?

Be forewarned. Most of the stories in this new anthology would have been much too dark to tell on a family-friendly ghost tour. This book is for mature horror fans.

But if you love ghost stories, haunted houses, and walks through the graveyard, climb on in.

Just make sure your doors are locked.

DAV, 2020

The first time I heard of the Isla de Las Muñecas I was fascinated. Unaware of its origin, I imagined my own explanation. The following story is the result.

One More Offering

IN THE GLOOM, A SMALL figure stands within the shadows of the trees. It stands so still it's almost invisible there in the darkness, but he knows it's her.

His heart pounds. His breath is all that he hears in the still woods. She waits for him to move, to turn his back, and every time he does when he looks back somehow she is closer. 

She stands motionless looking at the ground, her face hidden. She raises her head and he sees only the whites of her eyes glowing through the darkness.

The moon comes out from behind a cloud and shines just enough for him to make out the overgrown path that runs through the brambles, enough to avoid tripping over a root or stone in the path. Still he is afraid he will not make it to his cabin before she overtakes him.

He breaks into a run, not caring about the sharp branches and thorny vines that whip his face and arms. In addition to the pounding of his boots as they crush dried leaves and small sticks on the path, he hears the soft, faster footfalls of small bare feet running behind him.

Clouds cover the moon and he is in darkness again, yet he dares not slow down. He continues to run, thrashing his arms to swat the vines and branches from his face. He moans and wails even as he gasps for breath.

The moon breaks out again revealing the silhouette of the cabin ahead of him. He runs even harder and breaks into the small clearing and flings himself at the door, smashing his shoulder into it as he works the latch and stumbles inside. He slams the door shut and feels a thud hitting the other side. He throws the bolt and leans back against the door. His legs give out and he slides down and crashes onto the wooden floor.

Silence. 

And then a little girl's giggle, which drops in pitch to become a deep, low laugh.

ANOTHER DOLL LIES PARTIALLY buried in the heap of garbage. It is nothing special. Cheaply made. The face like a thousand other dolls all made on the same assembly line in a single day. One eye is missing and the pink, plastic skin is covered in splotches of gray grime from years of neglect. He snatches it by the arm and pulls it free from the wet muck of coffee grounds, remnants of rotten vegetables, slimy wrappers, bottles and plastic containers that he scoops out of his way. He throws it in a burlap sack with the others and works his way back to the dirt road.

His shirt sticks to his back and his feet kick up clouds of dust. His mind is blank. A quiet hiss, a high-pitched electronic whine that is always there, fills his head. He plods along with his eyes fixed on a small hill on the horizon that marks the point where he will leave the road. He hears the loose gravel rolling under his boots with each step until the rumble of a rusty pickup truck behind him drowns out all other noise. It passes and two dark-haired men riding on the edges of the open bed facing each other turn to stare at him. Their denim work shirts are stained with sweat and red Carolina clay. Unsmiling, one raises his hand in a half-wave. The walker ignores the cloud of dust that envelopes him and trudges on.

At the top of the hill a path breaks the line of woods along the right side of the road. He veers off and follows it, appreciating the immediate coolness of the shade. The air is still. No birds sing. No insects buzz. He remembers how pleasant it once was to walk this path and see abundant wildlife. It was rare then not to hear the shrill call of a pileated woodpecker as it streaked through the woods, or to see a fox, maybe even a bobcat along this trail. Now not even gnats are present.

He trudges the familiar route until he sees the first one and stops. It hangs suspended from a branch with its tiny arms held out as if it's flying. Its eyes are open, and it grins at him.  He walks again and makes the turn in the path.

Another one is impaled on a branch, its face cast down to gaze upon the ground, its once white dress now stained with dark gray mold matching the grime on its arms, legs and face.

The path turns again. Hundreds of dolls hang on either side of the path. Some have hair and all their limbs; most do not. Some are tied to limbs and small trunks of trees. Others hang by wires like so many tortured amputees, a grim tribute to a merciless god. 

More dolls decorate every available space on the walls of the small cabin that now comes into view. He walks towards it, setting the hanging dolls along the path into motion as he brushes past them. They swing like tiny victims on these unholiest of gallows and he is reminded of his great-grandfather who was lynched not far from this spot.

He drops the sack on the wooden floor of the porch and rummages inside it until he finds a can amidst the tangle of doll arms and bodies. He enters the house and sets the can on the small table.  The wood stove is cold, its fire out long ago. He pulls a can opener from the drawer, jerking it free when it sticks. The sound of each violent crank of the key echoes in the bare kitchen. Cockroaches scurry when he tosses the lid into the filthy sink beside a small bowl. The brown remains of a meal from several days ago are crusted on a circle of pink roses that decorate the rim. He takes the spoon from the bowl and wipes it on his shirttail and carries the can outside on the porch where he stares out at the woods as he digs out a spoonful of colorless beans.

Sitting on the edge of the small porch with his feet on the warped steps, he stares into the silent woods as he eats.