There Are Stranger Things

By K.V.T.

Twelve twisted tales of horror guaranteed to leave you questioning your sanity and looking over your shoulder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387962433

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There Are Stranger Things

There Are Stranger Things

This collection is dedicated to Melissa Mather, whose kind words of encouragement helped to convince me that my writing is not a waste of time.

Yup…Still in Kansas

This account was recorded while I was traveling around the breadbasket of America. I have an abiding interest in the local legends that make up the backbone of this country, and many of them have their roots in fact (surprisingly enough). Sleepy Hollow, The Jersey Devil, El Dorado and many more tall tales have places and people, as tangible as could be, still around to attest to the wildest corners of human imagining. This one though…this one really caught me off guard. And all it cost me was some patient listening and a case of Hamm’s. I’ll do my best to encapsulate the flavor of the teller’s narrative, though I will compress for time and the occasional derail of his train of thought. He was quite old.

I know sumthin’ bout twisters. Seen dozens of ‘em over the years, an I been sittin’ on this same step for more’n a hunred. Anymore they jes’ tear up trailers and Wal-Mart’s, but there was one, way back when cars wuz still scarce, that confounded everybody here about. Kinda seemed like it was the truth behind that ol’ picture…wha’sit called?...Oh, yeah. The Wizard o’ Oz.

Now the truth is this story’s got nuthin’ tuh do with a little girl an ‘er dog. You wanna hear a yarn like that, go down the road a bit to Purvis’ place an he’ll tell you one to make yur hair fall out. Nah, no dogs, no girls in this here story, but from my lips to God’s ear, it’s the honest truth.

This particular twister touched down a fair piece outsida’ town near a circus that wuz passin’ through. It wur one o’ them shabby little jobs. One tent, a half-dozen half-drunk clowns, an a gaggle o’ freaks, proly pulled out from their homes not too far from here. But they had a lion. Most folks aroun’ here never even heard of a African Lion, jus mountain lions, an then only from travelers. But sure as God made grain, this little one ring circus had the king o’ the jungle. Seen’im my own self, before the twister hit. Didn’t strike me as much of a king. He was kinda scrawny an sickly-lookin’. Guess I figured’im wrong though.

See, the circus wur all packed up an ready to ship out when the funnel o’ that cyclone skirted’em. Didn’t git close enough to the better part o’ the wagons to so much as blow the hat off’n the ringmaster’s head. But it took the door off’a that lion’s cage like peelin’ the husk off’a ear o’ corn. An that ol’ lion, I tell you, he took it as a sign.

Most’a the folks I knew who seen that mangy ol’ cat figured he was yeller. He shied away from the tamer at the show before the man could so much as git his whip an chair. He’d stay hunkered down in the back o’ his pen afterward an let us little kids toss popcorn at’im, an never made a peep. But once he got out’a that cage…boy…he weren’t yeller no more!

Story goes he started with that trainer. He was comin’ out to check on the lion an that big’ol cat hopped on him an set to pullin’im apart. One’a them drunk clowns hears the hollerin’ an goes out to see what there is to see. Bam! One less drunk clown, and the door to the drunk clown wagon wiiide open. I heard tell the sheriff lost his lunch after he took a look in that there wagon. An that weren’t the best of it, neither.

When that’ol cat finally got through chewin’ up clowns an freaks an trainers, he goes after the ringmaster. Turned out he was the real coward. Turned his heels to the wagons as soon as he heard the firs’ scream. I reckon he got a fair piece away a’fore the lion caught up wit’im. But when’e did, he made that ol’ man sorry.

Between the twister and noise it was kickin’ up, flattenin’ buildin’s and the like, you’da thought that one man’s yelpin’ would’a got drown out. But you’d be wrong. That lion pounced on the ringmaster and when he had’im down…he bit his balls off. No lie. Went straight for the family jewels, that big cat did, and you could hear the wailin’ from across town over all the other goin’s on, clear as a bell. That ol’ lion didn’t eat no other part o’ the man. Jes’ made a gelding of him an moseyed off. That cat’s still hereabouts some say, waitin’ for another circus to come through.

If you think that’s a good’n, you ought to hear bout that smithy. He got it almost worse, if you ask me. See, his family had been here plyin’ their trade fur generations. One smithy after the next, and this kid had a right smart swing on a anvil. He could build you a gate or pound out a horse shoe quicker and better than any man I ever known. Had a talent as a artist too. Made metal statues and such. Damn shame that man’s shop was right in the path o’ destruction when the big wind hit town.

See, he wur doin’ this kinda’ art he called…uh…whadde call it?...Oh yah, lostwax. Told me all you had to do was make a thing outta’ candle wax, plaster it over, an pour hot metal into the spot the wax was at. Made some fine works thatta’ way, but its noisy work hammerin’ an heatin’ metal.

So he’s in his shop, this smithy friend o’ mine, an he’s jes about ready to pour a new statue. I seen the thing carved outta wax, and boy howdy, it wur quite a sight. This woman, necked as the day she was born, all posed up like she’s dancin’. I’s jes a tike when I seen it, so I still ain’t sure what the spell this woman’s castin’ on me is, but I can tell you now it wur lust like I ain’t had for no flesh-n-blood woman in my life. Even my ol’ Myrtle, God rest her soul. It wur art wondrous to behold, an that’s a fact.

Anyway, the smithy’s got the metal red hot, and he’s all ready to pour it in when the twister hits town. Land’s smack-dab on his shop roof. Well he’s a hold’in onta this chain he’s got hooked up to the meltin’ pot for dear life, an God only knows how long, afor that funnel starts shiftin’ toward the other end o’ town. His feet touch the ground agin an he thinks he’s whooped death. Poor fool lets go’a the chain an starts praisin’ the Lord Almighty. Should’a kep his hands together and knelt. But no, he decides to do a jig, an that pot’a hot metal comes loose from the chain. Dumped right over his head, it did.

I know what’chur thinkin’. ‘A pot’a hot metal over a man’s body? There’d be nuthin’ left!’ An you’d proly be right, cep that wind had cooled the metal jes enough so when it hit’im, it made a statue outta’im. The next day when folks was searchin’ for their dogs and whatnot, somebody happens to look in the shop an there’s the smithy. Metal cooled so fast he still looks like he’s dancin’. There wur talk o’ leavin’im on the spot like a…a monument ‘er sumthin’, but lots’a folk thought that’d be indecent. In the end I believe he got sold to a art collector in New York. Has that poor man’s body on display in his parlor.

Don’t roll your eyes that’a way! I know this all sounds farfetched, but I ain’t the type to come up with yarns like this outta my own head. It’d take a sick mind to think of sumthin’ that awful! That man wur my friend an I don’t take kindly to the notion that I’d slander a dead man! Anyway…where was I? Oh yeah…that ol’ moonshiner.

Out at the edge o’ town there’s this farmer. He grows corn and grain an has a couple’a pigs. But everyone in town knows what he’s really doin’. Sure, he sells a bushel or two o’ his crops to make like he’s a straight shooter, but most’a his crop goes in his barn aroun’ harvest, an all that ever comes out is white lightnin’. Reckon he was tryin’ to save his still when that cyclone got out to his farm, though God only knows how he thought he’d get a ton o’ copper in his cellar by his lonesome.

Now, I didn’t see none o’ this personal-like, but Purvis from down the road seen it, the way he giggled when he told me makes me believe. Purvis is inta some sick shit, an when he laughs like a little boy whose been told a dirty joke he’s tellin’ the truth. He jes about wet himself when he told me bout that ol’ moonshiner.

It was a while after the storm had passed, mind you, an everybody had troubles o’ their own to work out. No one gave a sparrow fart in a cyclone about some ol’ drunk whilst they’s cleanin’ up what’s left o’ their own lives. But by and by, someone asks about the moonshiner (proly somebody whose feelin’ low an needs a snort). Soon enough a posse gits together to go check on all the folks as gone missin’. The moonshiner was almost the last stop.

First, the posse check’s his storm cellar. He ain’t there, so they tries the barn. Its flat as ant what walked under a elephant, so they figure there ain’t no sense in tryin’ to shift the timbers. They’s about to go to the next house when Purvis spots sumthin’.

Now you gotta understand, all around this man’s property there ain’t nothin’ standin’ higher off’a the ground than a couple’a feet. The house, the barn, the corn, the twister’s knocked it all over. But there’s this one shape out in the field that’s stickin’ up like a signpost. It takes the posse a few minutes to git over to it, but when they do, them boys (all exceptin’ Purvis that is) can’t sit right for weeks.

Like I said, that ol’ moonshiner must’a been out in the field runnin’ for the barn when the big wind came through. They found him stuck up a couple hunred feet from the back o’ the barn. Way Purvis tells it, his shirt, jeans, shoes, hat, you name it, they was all stuffed full’a sticks an straw. An the twister had jammed a two-by-four up his ass before ploppin’im down in the middle o’ that field. Couldn’t no one say o’ that man that he had any brains, out in the middle of a gale like that, but the twister had made damn sure the point got drove home. Put a ear o’ corn right through his head. Stickin’ out the ears on both sides o’ his head. Purvis could scarcely tell me that part he was laughin’ so hard. ‘An ear through both ears,’ he told me. There is sumthin’ off ‘bout that man can’t nobody put to right.

Well son, I reckon that’s about it…I’d like to say there was more, but…wait, there was one more. I damn near forgot. Age’ll do that to ya. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m comin’ or goin’. Now what was I sayin? That’s right, the last one they found.

Jes after they took the moonshiner down so’s the crows would stop peckin’ at’im, the posse went lookin’ in on this ol’ bat what lived out near the woods. Mosly they didn’t wanna go. That woman was a hard-bitten ol’ bitch. Used to scare kids jes by lookin at’em. Folks’d say round here that she had powers. Could call down flyin’ things to do her biddin’. Half the posse thought she’d called down the cyclone, but the sheriff, he insisted that was hokum an that any man who wouldn’t see to the care of an ol’ spinster woman could go home an clean his petticoats. That shut’em up quick.

It wur a bit o’ a hike to git to the ol’ woman’s house an the men had already seen a lot that day. But I tell you, when them boys saw what was left o’ that ol’ bitch…well…if they was clenched up cause’a that moonshiner, their asses was puckered forever after seein’ what happen to her.

The consensus goes that she was in the outhouse when the funnel got close by. Likely, she jes hiked up her knickers an ran for the storm cellar without botherin’ to clean herself. Thing was, she had a lock on that door. Hell, she had a lock on every door. Proly why most thought her so disagreeable. But she must’a been at tryin’ to get the lock open when she got hit. Outhouse dropped right on top o’ her.

Now you wouldn’t think that’d be so bad, seein’ as a outhouse ain’t got no floor, but she’d got the seat dropped on her head. There was a puddle of her leakin’ out from under the shitter an only her feet stickin’ out to tell who it was. She wore these house slippers see. Wore’em everywhere. An there’s them slippers, pokin’ out from under the box in a slop of ruby red. Must’a took her a good long while to bleed out, cause that blood was fresh. I don’t think any o’ those men ever went to the can again without thinkin’ bout them feet in a pool o’ blood. Gives me a chill jes thinkin’ about it.

That’s all son. For true this time. If you wanna hear more, talk to Purvis. I’m sure he’d be happy to oblige. Jes don’t let’im talk ya inta lookin’ through his scrapbook. That boy ain’t right.

I gotta take a whiz.

I did not go see Purvis. I was more than a little distressed at the tale I had already been told, and not ready for the story of a little girl and her dog. Instead, I just kept muttering to myself, ‘There’s no place like home’.

Curb Bite

The nice thing about living in a college town was that if you’re a thrift-store shopper like me, you never had to pay for furniture. All you had to do was wait for the end of the spring semester and soon alleys and sidewalks are cluttered with chairs, dressers, fish tanks, and lamps that are just waiting for a guy with a van. Most of my apartment was decorated in cast off from the front yards of kids who either dropped out or graduated. Some pretty nice stuff, too. I know the thought grosses most people out, but I’m more disgusted at the idea of a landfill overflowing with perfectly useable items discarded because someone else touched them. At least…that’s the way I used to feel.

When I first got into town I had nothing. My clothes and an army surplus mess kit were all the accumulation I had come up with in twenty-nine years of living. I was a nomad for a decade after graduating high school. I followed bands, did drugs, and made the occasional buck lugging guitars and speakers around. It was fun for a while. Eventually though, the music gets repetitive, the drugs screw up your stomach, and the idea of spending one more night sleeping in the back of a van becomes repugnant. After waking up to a cop knocking on my windshield with his Beretta for the hundredth time, I decided to head toward the nearest town and put down some roots. It was just good luck that I had a fist full of cash from roadie work and that it was the end of May.

It took a while to find a property manager who didn’t blow me off when I told them I had no rental history. When I did, it was this crotchety old guy with M.S. I guess if my legs didn’t work right I’d be pissy too, but this guy could have pulled the stick out of his butt and used it for a cane. After an hour of hot air about how young people were so irresponsible these days he gave me a short list of places I could barely afford. I tried to be gracious as I took the scrap of paper from him, but I think my hurry to