Old Bones

By Joe Powers

Gather round, my friends. Get comfortable, dim the lights, and settle in for a terrifying journey where each stop along the way is creepier than the last.
A themed corporate gathering...children with very special, very disturbing powers...a well-meaning criminal who can't quite manage to stay on the straight and narrow...filmmakers chasing an old legend that's more than just a story... a spectral visitor returns with stories from the past...
These stories reveal the evils of humanity at its worst, and the nightmarish things that lurk just around the corner from reality. Deceit, jealousy, temptation, danger, evil. Twelve tales of horror that delve into the dark recesses of your worst nightmares and lay them bare upon the page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Apr 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956788792

Joe Powers

Joe Powers is a Canadian horror writer and long-time fan of the genre. From his introduction to the genre when he watched Bride of Frankenstein on a stormy Saturday night at the age of six, he’s been hooked ever since. Hundreds - or maybe thousands - of horror movies later, that one still ranks among his favorites. Among his many inspirations he lists Stephen King, Jack Ketchum, Alfred Hitchcock, Vincent Price, Peter Benchley, and Richard Matheson. In his own stories he enjoys introducing the reader to flawed, believable characters and leading them on dark journeys with unexpected twists. He isn’t afraid to mix and match genres, fearlessly weaving horror into noir, western, or sci fi.Joe’s short stories have appeared in various anthologies and collections, both at home and abroad. Terror in High Water is his debut novel. In his spare time he's a dog lover, avid hockey fan, and creative writing instructor. He lives in New Brunswick with his wife, Sheryl, and an assortment of furry creatures. Follow Joe at www.joepowersauthor.com.

Book preview

1.png

Old Bones

by

Joe Powers

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

WCP Logo 7

World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © Joe Powers 2022

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9781956788785

eBook ISBN: 9781956788792

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, April 11, 2022

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: Karen Fuller

Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

Fashionably Late

On any other night of the year, the unlikely pair standing in the elevator would have drawn much more attention. The mere sight of a hulking, deranged mountain man linked arm in arm with a wicked witch, headed for the penthouse floor of an upscale building such as the Hanson Complex, would have turned the head of any onlooker. But on this night, such an image barely warranted a second glance. The couple was too distracted to notice anyway. It was Halloween, the Hanson Corporation was throwing a party for the staff, and the Bakers were running late.

I love these things, Fran gushed as she primped in front of the full-length mirror in the elevator. Mr. Hanson really knows how to throw a party. The two had met at their staff Christmas event four years earlier—Michael’s first with the company—and had been married for the last two. They had since attended several gatherings together at the Hanson Complex, where each of them worked by day in separate offices on different floors. Mr. Hanson’s staff parties were well-known and talked about all over the city—catered meals, open bar, live entertainment, amazing door prizes, even a babysitting service—all of the bases were covered in style, with no expense spared. Possibly the best part of all was that for the first time in the company’s history, this particular bash was to be held on Halloween. Naturally, it would be a costume party.

The building was something of an architectural marvel, soaring eighteen stories high, solidly built and laid out to be a potentially self-contained community. Cameras on the security level monitored every movement, guards discreetly patrolled regularly, and in extreme circumstances, the entire building could be locked down, sealed off from the outside world behind heavy steel doors, within seconds. The lower floors accommodated the head offices of various Hanson-owned companies, while the mid floors were comprised of condominiums occupied exclusively by employees. The upper floors were primarily the domain of the executives of various companies, and the pinnacle—the penthouse—was the sole domain of Sterling Hanson: billionaire, philanthropist, and mildly eccentric. Hanson was a kindly man who preferred to keep to himself, and the penthouse was definitely off limits to all but his personal staff, except for the parties. On those occasions, every employee, from the senior vice president to the custodian, was invited to join Hanson in the massive ballroom on the uppermost floor for a lavish gathering and, by most accounts, an unforgettable evening.

Michael, clad in tattered, blood-smeared overalls, frayed straw hat, and a thick, bushy beard held in place with glue, fought the urge to feel silly. It was their first Halloween party, for which costumes were mandatory, and he had mixed feelings about playing dress up in public. But he knew how much it meant to Fran, so he decided to let go for the evening, get fully into character, and make the best of it. He clutched a pitchfork with tines carefully painted to appear gore-stained and looked the part of a backwoods, murderous hillbilly perfectly. Well, you look real purty, he drawled with a sleepy grin, his sporadically blackened teeth adding to his appearance as a disturbed, dangerous individual. Getting’ me all hot and bothered, so ya are. Ah may have to drag you out behind the barn later.

Settle down, Cletus, or I’ll turn you into a toad, she fired back with a playful smile. She downplayed her costume but was secretly pleased Michael had noticed the work she’d put into it. It made her resemble, as he had put it, the hottest witch west of Oz: deliciously evil but sultry, with a touch of naughty thrown in for good measure. Her makeup was impeccable and coupled with her willingness and ability to throw herself into the role, the overall effect was a very convincing illusion.

The elevator doors opened onto a spacious lobby, extravagantly decorated in royal blue draperies offset with gilded edges and trim. The hallway was lined with marble pillars and elegant carvings extending in either direction into Mr. Hanson’s living quarters and other off-limits areas. Directly across from the elevator stood two large, ornately carved oak doors that opened onto the ballroom. A tuxedo-clad man stood on either side of the doors, accepting invitations with stoic professionalism from those entering. Fran and Michael stepped toward the men, who greeted them with curt nods, accepted the proffered invitations, and with dramatic flair directed them inside. The large double doors opened off the lobby onto a small inner foyer, also immaculately decorated, that housed a coat check area and an ornate table upon which sat what appeared to be a guest book. While Michael checked their coats, Fran glanced at the book, pleased to note some of the familiar names written there.

One of the few rules of the party, according to the inter-office memo, was that nobody was to reveal their identity to anyone until after midnight, the idea being that if nobody was sure who anyone else was, it encouraged intermingling among those who otherwise probably wouldn’t. As such, it was imperative to maintain some semblance of being in character in order to preserve the illusion. Mr. Hanson himself was rumored to be in attendance and had been known at previous parties to enjoy dispensing favors and promotions based on what he saw at his parties. Anyone caught ruining the spirit of the evening might find upward career mobility difficult. This also went a long way toward keeping people playing along.

Everyone seems to have gone with the horror theme, Michael noted. Not much in the way of pixies, cowboys, or French maids in here. He took in the scene before him and suddenly felt underdressed—almost everyone else had obviously put far more time and energy into their attire than he had, and it showed. Many of the costumes really stood out as elaborate and detailed, so much so, in fact, that Michael found it impossible to discern who the people behind the masks might be.

I’m going for a drink, Fran announced, her eyes already plotting out her travel route around the room.

Have fun, he said with a smile. I’ll be in here somewhere, drifting around.

She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Try to find someone you know, and be subtle. Play along, get into the spirit of things. Have some fun.

They parted ways, and Michael wandered around the room, taking in the spooky ambience. Proper atmosphere was essential for a Halloween party, and the ballroom captured it perfectly. The room was immaculately decorated with every kind of spooky adornment imaginable, yet it avoided the kind of excess that would have made it appear more comic than scary. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling in great looping strands. The lights were turned low and tinted pale yellow, casting a dim, ghoulish glow upon the room. A fog machine churned out a steady mist that swirled just above the ankles, staying low, obscuring the floor and skewing the room’s perspective. Nothing was overdone; subtlety from many different things combined to give the room a truly eerie feel. The one item that drew a look of disgust was a pile of human corpses haphazardly arranged against one wall, opposite the refreshment tables. An unknown number of bodies, blood-soaked, occasionally disemboweled and missing various limbs, made for a gruesome display. It was shockingly realistic and, in his opinion, inappropriate. Still, nobody else seemed to be complaining, so he let it go with a shrug. A little more macabre than he would have preferred, but maybe not entirely out of place given the overall theme.

It occurred to him at one point that, although a few of the guests had looked him over briefly, for the most part, he was being ignored, steadfastly excluded even. The awareness made him slightly self-conscious, but he tried to ignore the feelings. He was often uncomfortable in social situations, so he tried his best to chalk it up to just another day in his awkward routine. He occupied himself with examining the elaborate decorations, simultaneously amazed and disturbed at the realism on display. Refreshment tables were adorned with what appeared to be entrails and organs. The walls were gore-spattered, and at various points around the room were displays of what appeared to be heaps of partially consumed human remains. Much of it seemed to Michael to be in poor taste, but he was forced to admit it all followed the party’s theme, adding to the creepy ambience. He even allowed a small laugh to escape when he saw a large, hairy creature with muscular arms—one of the guys from maintenance, he guessed—casually reach down into one of the piles of bodies as he passed, select what looked like an arm, and take a generous bite. I’ll have to take a closer look and see what that stuff really is, he noted while scanning the tables for something he recognized as food.

Pushing aside his discomfort, he tried to strike up conversations with a few of the other guests but found they were generally non-communicative, aloof, or downright rude. Fran, he noted, seemed to be fitting in much more easily, drifting among the clusters of people, cackling and waggling her fingers, sporting a wicked smile. He was always enchanted by her social ease, envious even of the ease at which she managed to blend into almost any social surrounding. Tonight was no different, and he resigned himself to an evening of solo activity.

Standing near one of the refreshment tables, Michael sniffed the air, trying to pinpoint the source of the slightly sour, metallic odor that was gradually overpowering his senses. It seemed to permeate the entire room and had gotten to the point where it was really starting to bother him. He drifted around to different areas, trying to escape what he considered atmospheric overkill. Everything was just a little too realistic, he thought, wrinkling his nose. Attention to detail was one thing, but the closer he examined some of the costumes, the more he was convinced there was more to them than just extreme dedication to detail. The wiggling ears on the werewolf, the twitching antennae on the alien mutant, even the pulsing gills on the swamp creature. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he questioned how a creature with gills could breathe out of the water, which made him aware that he hadn’t been thinking of the people in the room as his coworkers in costumes. Subtly he crept closer to take a better look at the beast he’d seen eating the arm earlier, and it was only when he saw a small cluster of fleas leaping around near the neck and back that he came to the sudden, jarring conclusion that it was no costume. Realization dawned on him, creeping up from his subconscious with increasingly chilling clarity: these weren’t intricately detailed costumes. At least some of these people weren’t people at all. This was real, and he was in serious trouble.

Michael struggled to wrap his head around the impossible situation, trying to appear calm as he formulated a plan of escape. Step one was to round up Fran. He looked around anxiously, trying to locate her. He caught a glimpse of her gliding toward him, mingling easily with those she came in contact with. She smiled, her fingertips brushed arms as she passed by, and she looked to be completely in her element, playing the room as she was. He silently willed her closer, barely able to contain his increasing agitation. After what felt to him like an eternity, their eyes met and Fran, sensing the urgency, made her way toward him.

It never ceases to amaze me, she noted as she approached, just how many people work in this building. We’ve been here nearly an hour, I’ve been out mixing and mingling, and I haven’t come across a single person I know yet.

I don’t doubt that, he replied, without looking directly at her. I would be very surprised if anyone we worked with was in the room.

Why do you say that? What’s the problem, Michael? she asked. You look a little frazzled. She scanned his features, saw that he was growing more anxious by the second, and turned serious. What is it, honey? she repeated, her brow furrowed with concern.

Stay calm, he whispered, pretending to look past her at something interesting across the room. What you’ve been doing, working the room and putting everyone at ease—I want you to keep doing that, but start making your way toward the door, as casually and inconspicuously as you can.

Michael, you’re scaring me. What’s going on? She placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to meet his gaze. He seemed to draw his eyes away from his fictional point of interest reluctantly and looked into her eyes.

We are, without drawing a single bit of attention to ourselves, going to make our way toward the door. When we get there, as subtly as possible, we’re going to leave the party, and with any luck, we’re going to make it to the elevator, down to the ground floor, out the door, and home in one piece. He saw that she was about to press him further—was approaching that point of determined pressure she often used when growing exasperated with something he was doing, or, as in this case, wasn’t doing to her satisfaction. He gave a fake laugh as if in response to some witty remark she’d made, peering around from the corners of his eyes to see if anyone was watching them. I don’t have time to go into details, Fran, he said. Suffice it to say, you and I are wearing the best costumes in the room. And should that little tidbit of information become public knowledge, I think things are going to go very badly for us tonight.

Fran tried to figure out what her husband was trying to tell her and why he seemed so intent on appearing casual about doing so. She did her best to maintain her façade of calm while she turned his words over in her mind, looking for the unspoken clues he was trying to leave for her. What did he mean by his best costume comment? Surely there were others, like the mummy she’d seen a few minutes earlier, with far more detailed and impressive costumes. The werewolf was also top-notch; try though she might, Fran had been unable to detect any imperfection with that one. In fact, she thought, they all looked impeccably detailed. Flawless, even. So then what was he—?

Her eyes opened wide, and she drew a sharp breath. Michael gave her hand a firm squeeze. Keep it together, honey, he whispered. Now you see why we need to move quietly and quickly.

The color drained from Fran’s face as she gave a barely perceptible nod, her lips