Tired of Monsters

By Stephen Couch

A maternity ward snapshot opens up a world of occult tragedy...

A small Texas town harbors the Second Coming -- and a host of unspeakable secrets...

A Dust Bowl family faces down a terrifying alien contagion...

A haunted grocery store holds a woman's only chance at redemption...

 

Visit the darkness in the shadows of a sunny waterslide park and the flooded corridors of an abandoned missile silo.  Tiptoe through the sterile environment of a college physics lab and the diseased depths of a junkie's deviant faith.  Encounter deranged doppelgangers, ride along on a cattle drive gone horribly awry, bear witness to an elderly farmer's final sacrifice, and meet a child whose imagination may be the world's last defense.

 

These twelve stories from Stephen Couch will introduce you to familiar worlds where new terrors run rampant...and where ancient fears find even they have no place to hide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mere Moments Publishing
• Release date: Dec 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393258025

Book preview

THE BIRDIE

T hey need you, said the volunteer, and Donald figured that was a good thing, to be needed. It got him away from the ennui of the latest Jumbo Crossword Book; it got him out of his phone booth-sized office at County Memorial.

It got him in contact with real, live people, even if it was only for as long as it took him to take a picture.

The camera sat on top of the half-height filing cabinet, loaded and ready. Donald snagged it by the strap, feeling its familiar weight. The bag of lenses on the floor, long ignored, went untouched again. Months of art school training down the tubes that was. But then, you didn't need telephoto or fisheye in a hospital. You didn't need to take light readings when every room was fixed at the same level of fluorescent blandness.

All you needed was to engender a rousing chorus of 'cheese' and push the button.

The volunteer's nametag read, MATILDA - HOW MAY I HELP YOU? She held the door for Donald as he bustled out into the hallway, and followed him to the elevator. Five fifteen, she said.

The maternity ward: always difficult, but 90% of Donald's work. Most times, he was lucky to get a picture where the baby wasn't squalling with pain, the parents having had its ears pierced within minutes of it entering this world, introducing it early to the concept of unwarranted suffering.

That or they'd have slapped a bow on its head like it was some kind of Christmas present, giving it a head start on the idea of unwarranted humiliation.

Donald poked the UP button and waited for the elevator to arrive; the soft, intermittent dings of its approach drowned out by the intercom calling for Doctor This and Code That. Matilda stood by his side.

I should tell you, she said, although I'm sure you're used to it by now...

He blinked, turned away from the procession of descending numbers over the elevator door. Mm?

She wrung her arthritic hands. Well, it's just...

The last bell sounded and the door opened. Donald and Matilda went inside, sharing space with an orderly and an empty gurney. Matilda, seeing that they weren't alone, fell silent and stared at the floor.

Donald cleared his throat. What were you going to tell me?

She glanced at the orderly. It's nothing.

Donald shrugged. All right. He went back to staring at the numbers as they lit up then went dim, one by one.

Fifth floor, and the orderly and Matilda stayed behind as Donald exited. Five fifteen, she said again, looking as if she wanted to say more. The door closed before she could make up her mind.

Donald shook his head. The volunteers were matronly and compassionate, but at times overly so. He'd seen them coddling morgue attendants, for God's sake.

He supposed he'd find her later and see what she was all het up about. Nothing sadder than someone being denied a chance to care.

Donald found the room and knocked on the door, easing it open. Photography service, he said.

Someone inside opened the door the rest of the way, and Donald stepped through to be met by a dozen or more people surrounding the bed. Everyone had turned out for the blessed event, it seemed.

A balding man popped out from behind the door and shook Donald's hand. He wore a bright blue #1 DAD button. Thank you so much for coming, he said in a whisper.

Donald nodded. What would you like done? he asked, and reached into his pocket for a price brochure, which he passed off to the man. A big group shot, then some individuals of the mother?

Just the group, the father said. It's a family tradition.

Donald gave a thumbs-up. If you'd like to get everyone arranged around the bed the way you want them. He busied himself with the camera as the man whispered and gestured to the rest of the family, shuffling them into formation around the bed.

Quiet kid, he reflected. Maybe this would be one of the easy ones. As soon as the flash went off and hit those sensitive newborn eyes, though, the kid's complacency would end in a flurry of crying.

The family finished grouping themselves around the bed, the understandably haggard mother cradling her newborn. Donald checked the viewfinder, twisted the lens into focus, and held up the camera to his eye.

Smile, everyone, he said. Watch the birdie. Not that he had a birdie for them to watch, but photographers' traditions had to be maintained.

The family smiled, proud as could be, and Donald snapped the picture. Here come the waterworks, he thought.

Nothing happened. The baby stayed still and quiet and the more Donald looked at the shot on the digital playback, the more he could see what he hadn't seen before, what he hadn't seen because his mind wasn't anywhere near the frame it needed to be in to think of such a...

The baby was unmoving.

The baby didn't react to anything.

The baby was dead.

Oh, God. Did the family not realize it? They were chatting and laughing and, no, no, looking down at the thing and smiling as though getting ready to play peek-a-boo with it.

There were only two things in the world Donald could look at in that moment—the frozen tableau on his camera's screen, and the live mockery of happiness in front of him.

A nurse came in and Donald tensed. She would see. She would see what was wrong and tell the family and then the only joy in the room would be the misbegotten, false moment trapped in Donald's camera.

He couldn't bear to see the pain, the limitless anguish that was about to flood the room. He had to get out of there.

Are we all done? asked the nurse. The mother nodded, still smiling, and the nurse reached down to pick up the infant—

—Donald couldn't run, couldn't breathe, could only watch—

—The nurse leaned in and picked up the baby. Now Donald could see how stiff it was, the lifelessness hidden by a wrap of swaddling and the pulse of family bustle around it—

—There we go, said the nurse, hefting the bundle. She looked at the man who'd spoken to Donald. We'll have the service this afternoon in the hospital chapel.

There were warm murmurs and handshakes all around, and the nurse departed with the child-corpse. Donald stood adrift as he watched her leave.

The man walked over and patted him on the shoulder. When can we get the photos? he asked, with all the enthusiasm of a new dad.

Donald bolted from the room without a word.

He stumbled down the hall, gripping his camera so tightly he thought he'd crush it. (And all the better, he wouldn't have to look at that picture any longer; what was wrong with those people, it was dead, dead, dead...)

Donald slammed open the swinging bathroom door with his free hand. He managed to let go of the camera and turned the sink tap, splashing handful after handful of water on his face. (And maybe the water would splash on the camera and short it out and wipe out that image; what was wrong...)

He couldn't help himself. He glanced down at the camera and caught a glimpse of part of the image, the proudly smiling faces cast into nauseating purples and greens from the angle of the LCD screen.

With a guttural belch, he turned and flung himself into the nearest stall, dropping to his knees and grabbing the toilet seat like he was bringing it in for a landing with no instruments.

But nothing came up. Donald hung over the bowl, mouth agape, tongue flexing, eyes bugged. He couldn't purge it, no matter how much he pictured the image. He couldn't get rid of the crusty, oily feeling in his head, in his heart, in his guts. Nothing would dislodge it...

A thought, unbidden: You forgot to ask if they wanted wallet-size.

The vomit came easily, then.

MATILDA THE VOLUNTEER called him three days into his fake sick leave.

I didn't know how to tell you, she said after a brief exchange of small talk. I'm sorry.

Donald glanced at the coffee table where the memory card from his camera sat, the family portrait locked deep inside, sitting somewhere in those tiny, sculpted magnetic fields like a lurking tumor.

It was the only thing he'd ever put on the table that the cat hadn't batted to the floor and gnawed to smithereens.

It's all right, Donald said when he realized he'd been silent too long. I just...I wish I knew why. I can't understand it.

Matilda's voice was kind over the phone. Donald could imagine that voice offering fresh-baked cookies to eager grandchildren. I can't understand how they could do it twice, let alone once.

Donald felt it come back in a surge, as though it hadn't slowly drained away the last three days: the nausea, the vertigo, the sense that everything was nonsense. Twice? he managed to croak.

Oh, yes, Matilda said. I thought you knew—the photographer before you; he left when it...I thought that's why they hired you. You know, because you had...experience with things like this.

Donald remembered his first few days on the job, dealing with dozens of unprocessed rolls of film, unshipped sets of prints, and many, many pissed-off new parents.

Twice, he repeated.

At least, said Matilda. I mean, I've been volunteering for only a year or so, but—

"Twice in the space of a year?"

Matilda didn't seem to hear the bottom drop out of Donald's voice. Yes, poor things. When I first heard about it, I thought maybe it was grief—I know when my Bertram passed six years ago, I made some foolish choices, but...

I'm sorry, Donald butted in, feeling a twinge of guilt amidst all the incipient madness. He could tell she wanted someone to talk to. I have to go, there's something I need to...

It's all right, Matilda said, and while the warmth was still there, there was a rote quality to the words, as if she were overused to saying them to disinterested children. Will you be coming back?

No, he thought, but said the opposite.

We'll see you then, she said, and rang off.

In the empty apartment, Donald suddenly wished he'd kept talking to her, if only so he wasn't alone with nothing but the thought twice in a year for company.

He looked for the cat, to give it a hug, but it had hidden somewhere.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER BEFORE you.

Donald had never thought to ask what had happened to the man; he was too resentful at the piles of unfinished work left in the guy's wake to think of him as anything more than that asshole.

But now...maybe he could talk to the guy, commiserate, and find a kindred spirit to share this burden.

Or maybe he'd look the guy up and find his new address was the state mental hospital.

Maybe, just like Donald, the old photog couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop having nightmares about it, and finally snapped.

Snapped? Maybe he broke.

Maybe he broke himself, with a gun, or a razor blade, or a bottle of pills.

Pills just like the ones Donald had been using to make himself sleep the last couple of nights.

Oh, God, he moaned. This wasn't ever going to end, was it? In the back of his mind, Donald had clung to the old saw about trauma: that it faded with time. But now, with every second that passed transforming from a potential future of healing and happiness into a present of anguish and confusion, he knew the truth.

Pain never stopped. You either became callous enough to ignore it, or you lied down and let it eat you alive.

Or the third option—Donald thought about the pills again.

Donald had never regarded himself as depressive before—he had his ups and down like anyone, but for the most part his emotions cruised level ground. He also thought of himself as empathetic: you had to be, to get to the emotional core of your subject, whether they were posing for a yearbook photo or proudly displaying their newborn.

Or trivializing the death of an innocent child for some sick, unfathomable form of private entertainment.

So what would it be? Accept depression, and let these sick excuses for human beings drive him down into permanent despair? Grow a hard shell of faded bruises and scar tissue, so that the merry objectification of dead babies didn't faze him?

Hell, maybe he could join in with the smiles and good times—hold the thing while one of the family members snapped his picture.

And so his thoughts went: fires that fueled his body, fed his legs energy enough to pace for hours. He didn't notice as the sun sank and his apartment went black; he continued walking the floor by memory, avoiding the coffee table, the dinner table, the bed, the computer desk, and all the rest of his meager furniture by dint of an unchanging, unvarying routine.

Until the cat meowed and rubbed against his legs, almost tripping him, and he came to himself.

With a groan, he made his way to the bed, having to feel in the dark for doorjambs and obstacles he'd been auto-piloting around.

He crashed on the bed, still clothed, and as the cat kneaded the pillow beside him, he wondered if he was sleeping because depression was claiming him, or because he'd become too jaded to care.

He supposed he'd find out in the morning.

HE WAS UP, SHOWERED, dressed, and halfway out the door the next morning before he remembered.

But on remembering, he felt something new, and with its being a feeling, he knew he hadn't succumbed to the prison of callousness.

It wasn't empathy, though—not that emotional water that froze or flowed or vaporized at the whim of its environment.

It wasn't a suicidal urge, either.

Donald felt angry.

And on the drive to the hospital, he only got angrier.

He went to his office and half-expected to see some new photographer there, cursing Donald's name over the amount of work he'd left behind.

There were messages in his voice mail, of course. One speaker he recognized immediately.

Hi, this is Mitch Abrams calling about the shots you took of the family and the baby on Tuesday. Just give me a call, and he reeled off the number.

Not