UNTOLD

By Ben McElroy

Every writer has one. The contents go ignored for the most part. Once in a while, though, the writer is between projects or unsure of what to create next. During these fallow periods, on which object does the writer rely? Their trunk. Within that ethereal repository languish unfinished novels or stories, ideas for that proverbial rainy day, comp

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin T. McElroy
• Release date: Sep 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088040560

Ben McElroy

Ben McElroy strives toward offering you a quality product should you ever feel the urge to purchase and read one of his books. He has previously self-published the ebook story collection Emergence of the Hidden Things & Other Nightmares as well as the ebook and hardcover short novel Seconds in a Day. This newest ebook brings together a dozen pieces of fiction that have haunted Ben for many, many years. At last, he can now move on to other writing projects, including but not limited to his retro werewolf novel, the sequel to Seconds in a Day, and possibly that non-fiction book regarding horror movies he has talked about (and partially composed) for more than a decade. Please feel free to reach out to him with any questions or comments about his output thus far at [e-mail]. Ben doesn't do social media nor does he have the time to maintain a website or any other such drivel. He's 100% old school, so if you like what you've read, please spread the word. He'll appreciate that more than words can convey.

Book preview

Let me tell you a story.

It ain’t a pleasant one.

When you’ve heard it to the end,

You’ll wish you’d never done.

          – from Tales of Woe & Wreckage

             by Tony Kendall

Editor's Note

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

While searching for a writer whose work to highlight in this volume, perhaps the final one, of my Tales from the Trunk series of single-author story collections, I happened upon two relatively recent ebooks self-published by one Ben McElroy. I had never heard of him, and why should I have? Why should any of you readers have done so? No reason to feel as if you (or I) should have.

That is, until now.

Mr. McElroy’s first ebook, Emergence of the Hidden Things & Other Nightmares, contains previously published horror stories originally found in small press publications and a few that had never seen the light of day. His brief introductions to each tale offer insights to their origins (or languishments) as well as some authorial commentary to enhance their enjoyment. Did I enjoy them? For the most part, yes. They all exhibited an emerging talent honed over a couple decades of practicing the art of fiction.

Then I read his short novel, Seconds in a Day, which contained a handful of heretofore unpublished general fiction stories as well. To phrase it bluntly, this second ebook left me flabbergasted and delighted and several other indescribable, though positive, emotions. The term that comes to mind now as I compose this Note is beautiful.

And so, I tracked down Mr. McElroy, which was no easy task. He is not a hermit, but, rather, the very close first cousin to such a being. To wit, he met my initial communication to him with abject refusal to publish more of his work.

Why would you want to waste your time with any of that? he asked, executing a wrist flicking maneuver to which I became quite familiar. Besides, I have nothing to offer.

Kind sir, all authors possess a trunk, virtual or physical, I said. Perhaps you have several pieces that you or others have deemed unworthy to publish.

He stopped me there with a curt, Sorry, but no.

Then he hung up on me. Undeterred by his unfounded reluctance, I decided to give him some time to consider my request. Awful conceited of me to believe that he would reconsider, but one never knows.

A month later, a contacted Mr. McElroy again.

After I re-introduced myself, he asked, You again?

Your writing must be shared with a wider audience, Mr. McElroy. I can provide that audience to you, I said.

His response, No.

This time, I ended the call with a polite, Thank you for your time, kind sir.

With that, I realized that he and I shared at least one affliction in common: acute tenacity.

I let a week pass before I next dialed his number. He did not answer his phone. I vowed neither to leave a message nor to dial his number again. His caller ID would only betray me.

The very next day, as I was about to head out for my daily constitutional, my phone rang. I beamed when I recognized the number on the screen. I stepped backed into the foyer and took the call.

Why, Mr. McElroy! What an absolute delight it is to hear from you, kind sir, I said.

He came back with, I only want you to know that I’m blocking your number.

And he hung up.

I immediately rejected sending him an email, for he could just as easily block me from that mode of contact. A written missive could be shredded and discarded. That left me with but one choice: a personal visit. What did I have to lose?

Within the hour, I made haste to his residence. (Being an individual keen on maintaining my own privacy, I will not divulge even the first letter of his hometown in order to respect his privacy.) As soon as I arrived, he stepped out onto his front porch with a smile, one I decided to distrust at first glimpse.

I appreciate your dogged determination, Mr. McElroy said. I still have nothing for you.

Please, kind sir, I only ask for ten minutes of your time, I said. If after that limit has lapsed, you will never hear from me again.

He stood there. I interpreted that as my inferred invitation to join him up on the porch. Once there, we sat in matching wicker chairs with a small glass-topped table between us.

Speak, he said.

I did.

Almost two hours later, we’d struck a gentlemen's agreement. Mr. McElroy would scour through his trunk, and I would publish the book you are now reading.

Fast forward almost one year later, and I received a very bulky stack of manuscript pages in the mail. Much to my delight, Mr. McElroy had provided me with a substantial representation of the contents from his trunk. He also graciously included a brand new short story among the lot.

A daunting editorial task now loomed before me, yet I took to it with great relish.

I spent the better part of two weeks reading and re-reading and reading thrice every piece provided to me. I then commandeered another week to make some initial cuts, during which I made out my short list. From there, I locked myself in my office for about sixteen hours. At the conclusion of that lengthy and arduous day, I had built the final Table of Contents, or TOC in the biz.

Ultimately, I gleaned a dozen stories and novellas–including the aforementioned brand new story–ranging from about 500 to about 18,000 words each. I then separated them into three clusters of four. The first quartet represents the most entertaining group, though each story harbors some very dark secrets. The second quartet spans centuries of time, yet crossover material connects them all. The third quartet covers the most dismal and dreary subject matter, and I do apologize in advance for leaving you with such a bitter aftertaste.

And so, without further ramblings from me, I shall now permit Mr. McElroy’s words to speak for themselves. I am proud and honored to share them with you here in this, Volume XII of my highly acclaimed Tales from the Trunk series. UNTOLD is among the best of them. And so, it is time for these tales to be…

…TOLD.

Respectfully,

M. T. Beardsley

Devil's Lane

DEVIL'S LANE

I.

The denizen of the dark went still and silent, for unwelcome brilliance had invaded his domain. Hints of skeletal trees lined the sides of the narrow, moonlit road. Oncoming headlights slashed through the shadows. At one with the darkness, the bald and brawny Bone Man watched the approaching van. As it neared him, he read the words splashed across the side panel in a stylized script: T & G HVAC SERVICES. He turned and eased deeper into the confines of the forest.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

Up ahead at the far reaches of the van’s headlights stood a tall, concrete wall separated by a wrought iron gate, which creaked open. Was that an invitation to enter the property? Garrett despised these after-hours emergency calls at desolate locations, but he and his business partner needed the money to keep their company operating and fiscally sound.

Sighing, Garrett continued to drive forward. He slowed when he thought he saw an indistinct silhouette sidestep away from the gate. No sense getting himself all nerved up, though. A well-lit house loomed in the near distance. As his van rolled through the gate, Garrett looked to his right and left. The wall disappeared into the trees in both directions. No sign of the person who had permitted him entry onto the property, but he would soon be at the house with its welcoming light.

The pavement transitioned to hard-packed dirt. Then the road narrowed to a single lane. Garrett’s van jerked to an abrupt halt.

A sudden, loud clang reverberated through the stark silence. Four rusty metal plates caged in the van. Garrett hollered in surprise.

Something heavy landed on the van’s roof, caving it partway in. Garrett ducked and screamed. A pointed shovel broke through the inverted dent up above.

He attempted to open his door. It opened no more than an inch or two before it hit the metal plate. As the shovel plunged through the roof again and again, Garrett continued to scream.

In less than a minute, three sides of a square-shaped hole formed. His unseen assailant pulled back the roof, creating a ragged opening. A pair of burly arms reached into the passenger compartment.

Garrett’s screams rose in pitch and intensity. The assailant grabbed him around the neck; he fell silent. Choking and gurgling, he was lifted up into the night.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

Rowdy customers filled almost every barstool, table, and booth at The Pink Carnation. A jukebox played a current pop song beneath the conversational buzz. Janella Williams stood stiff and alone behind the bar. She watched Marci, in the standard form fitting uniform of the waitstaff, as she bustled from table to table. Janella’s posture relaxed degree by degree. She almost grinned.

The entryway door opened to her right. A warm, summer breeze ushered in Tyrel, wearing his typical chambray work shirt with TY stitched on the left breast pocket over the T & G HVAC SERVICES logo. He sat on the only vacant stool at the bar.

Sup, J? Ty asked.

Want your usual? Janella asked in return.

Ty nodded. She got to work preparing his gin and tonic. Her attention drifted away from her task and over to the mighty fine Marci. Janella forced her stare away from the object of her desire so she could serve Ty his drink without spilling it. He sipped it and smirked as he beckoned Janella to come closer. Reluctant to do so, she leaned toward him anyway.

He tilted his head in Marci’s direction and said, She ain’t gonna wait around forever.

Tears moistened Janella’s eyes. Her hands fisted at her sides. Ty’s smirk faded.

I need more time, Janella said.

That went down, what? Ty asked. A year ago?

Plus that other shit the year before that.

You still have me, sis.

She rolled her eyes, and said, Wonderful.

Ty shrugged and picked up his glass. After gulping down the rest of his drink, he stood up and walked away. His bright orange sneakers squeaked all the way to the door.

Janella called out, Ty, come back!

But he’d already gone. Shedding one of the unfallen tears and swiping it away. she checked to see if Marci had witnessed this brief moment of weakness. Nope. Occupied with a customer, a regular from what Janella could discern. Her brother was right, though. Someone else would snag Marci if Janella hesitated too much longer.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

Holding Garrett’s ankles, the Bone Man dragged his prize toward the house. Garrett’s eyes fluttered open. The Bone Man veered to the side of the road. Garrett seized the opportunity to latch onto the trunk of a small tree. The Bone Man stumbled and lost his grip on Garrett’s ankles.

Still reeling from his extraction from the van and subsequent beating, Garrett scrambled to his feet. He ran toward the gate and the promise of freedom beyond that. The Bone Man gave chase.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

Sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, Ty checked his phone for any missed calls or texts. Nothing. Muttering obscenities, he dialed a number he knew very well. His call went straight to voicemail.

After the greeting played, Ty said, Yo, G. Meet me at my place after you finish up that Devil’s Lane job. We got tons of paperwork to catch up on.

A sedan pulled into the open spot next to Ty. He turned to see who had arrived. Esteban Alvarez. Ty waved as he backed out. Esteban nodded in acknowledgement. Ty almost reconsidered his decision to leave, but duty called stronger than socializing. Work before play and all that nonsense.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

The Bone Man tackled Garrett, who released a hoarse scream. His assailant stood then yanked Garrett up by the elbow. His grip tightened when he pulled Garrett toward the house once again. All he could think to do was to go limp.

Growling, the Bone Man stopped. He grabbed Garrett by the throat, lifting him until his feet dangled a good couple feet above the road. Garrett struggled to draw in some air. His body twitched and trembled. The Bone Man drew a dagger crafted from bones out of a sheathe that looked like it could’ve been fashioned from human skin. He impaled Garrett’s chest. The tip of the dagger poked out of Garrett’s back. Blood oozed from his mouth. His body jittered with wild abandon for a few seconds. Then it went still.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

Strolling along the sidewalk that led to The Pick Carnation’s entrance, Esteban immersed himself in the sights and sounds of South Brookfield at night. In the summer. On a glamorous Friday evening.

A pickup on the adjacent road slowed and kept pace with Esteban. He stopped. So did the truck. The passengerside window rolled down. A grinning young man leaned out.

He said, Hey! Dude!

Esteban turned toward the voice. A scraggly teen leered at him.

Yeah, you! the teen said. We need directions.

Where to? Esteban asked.

As far away from this fucking queer bar as possible, you cocksucking flamer!

The teen howled with laughter. He disappeared from view. When he popped back up, he threw a half dozen empty beer bottles at Esteban. None came close to hitting him.

Enraged at this display of blatant intolerance, he fired back a couple somewhat intact bottles. The pickup sped away. Esteban trembled where he stood. So much for more enlightened times.

He’d experienced a spark of hope when the United States had elected its first diverse President in 2008. Then it had all come crashing down eight years later when the most vocal and outrageous President to date took up residence in the White House. Talk about a backslide. Hence, ignoramuses like that teen felt it was well within their rights to act that way toward the LGBTQA+ community. Unfortunately, the current and very much useless President was destined to become a historical footnote at best.

Somebody jogged toward Esteban from the parking lot. He turned to see who it was. Eddie Tran, wearing his ubiquitous beret, tripped over his own feet but managed to keep himself upright. He stopped next to Esteban and sipped from a flask.

With a wicked gleam in his eyes, Freddie asked, Old friends of yours?

Case of mistaken identity, Esteban said.

You coming or going?

Who the hell knows anymore?

Freddie giggled. The carefree sound made Esteban grin. They proceeded to the bar and entered one after the other.

II.

Marci stood at a table occupied by four tipsy and well-proportioned young women. Exquisite individually. When taken as a whole, mind blowing. Marci finished filling her tray with the group’s empties.

The perky blonde said, Make sure the next round’s strong.

Her freckled red-headed friend said, We’re celebrating.

Anything special? Marci asked.

The Latinx woman said, Oh, yeah! I just got single, and I’m ready to jump right back into the dating pool.

Maybe I can be there to catch you, Marci said and winked.

The foursome erupted into a fit of giggles. Marci gave them all high fives. She wondered what it’d be like to engage in an orgy with this quartet.

I want a cherry in my drink so I’ll know it’s a virgin, the fourth woman, a delectable delight of Middle Eastern descent, said.

Marci said, Sucks being the DD, doesn't it?

The reply: Hell, no! I’ll remember who I fucked tonight come tomorrow morning.

Marci chuckled, sort of wishing and hoping that she could be the possible recipient of said fucking. With a twinge of guilt, she glanced over her shoulder toward the bar. Janella glared at her.

I’ll be right back with those drinks, ladies, Marci said.

The women hooted and whistled as Marci walked away. She added a little extra sway to her hips that resulted in appreciative applause.

Janella wiped the bar top with that grungy rag she seemed incapable of trashing. Marci slowed her pace. When she placed the tray of empties down, Janella ignored her.

I need refills for the hotties at that back table over there, Marci said.

She turned around with a suggestive smile and waved at the four women. They all returned the smile and wave with great enthusiasm. Behind Marci, Janella clenched her teeth as she prepared the drinks. Then she strode over to Marci and tapped her on the shoulder with more force than necessary.

Marci swung around, rubbing at the sore spot. Janella frowned. Not liking that look at all, Marci took a couple steps back.

Janella said, Quit it.

But Janella, Marci said.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You rely on tips to supplement your paltry hourly wage.

It’s just some harmless flirting.

You have no idea what their intentions could be.

Not everybody’s like that asshole Stuller. Give people a chance. There’s more good ones than bad ones out there, you know.

Marci avoided Janella’s gaze. She grabbed her full tray and carried it away. Nice going. Then again, Janella hadn’t exactly asked her out yet or anything. She had better hurry, though. Marci didn’t plan to stay single much longer. She had needs and desired companionship, maybe even love.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

Janella leaned on the bar with a wistful expression. Had she squandered her chances with Marci? Did she even have a chance? Did Marci think of her as anything other than The Boss? Janella forced herself to stop keeping watch over Marci. That was no easy task.

Freddie nursed a beer over to Janella’s right. He almost slipped off his stool but stopped his descent by grabbing onto the bar with his free hand.

You’re pining, Nella, he said.

Shut up, she said with a grin. I see the way you ogle Esteban.

He snickered and shrugged.

Difference is, I don’t try to hide my interest in him.

Sitting on the next stool over, Esteban chuckled. Janella rolled her eyes and returned to bartending. And staring at Marci.

Esteban asked, When you gonna get the balls to ask me out, Freddie?

After another few beers, Freddie said.

Both men busted out laughing. Luis, an older man, sat down on the other side of Esteban. He pulled a vaping device out of the breast pocket of his button-up shirt. Esteban scowled.

Luis said, You got to admit, it’s another step in the right direction.

Nicotine is nicotine, Esteban said. The source don’t matter.

You my watchdog now?

Yeah, like Alan King in that old Stephen King movie where James Woods tries to quit smoking.

They snickered. Luis stopped first. He pursed his lips. His face took on a reflective expression.

Then he said, Your mama, she forbids me all my vices at home since my little trip to the ER three years ago. A home I helped build with these two hands.

Luis held his hands up and inspected them, front and back. He winced. Blew air between his lips.

When the fuck did I get so old looking? he asked.

Esteban said, You don’t look that old, Papa. Yet.

Luis patted Esteban’s shoulder. Freddie took in the father and son camaraderie, while readjusting his beret.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

Silence spread in the sporadic lighting provided by an eclectic array of lamps situated here and there along the walls of the Bone Man’s basement. Even so, shadows overruled the brightness. The Bone Man dropped his prey’s naked corpse onto a stainless steel table next to a modified hydrotherapy tub. The body landed with a heavy thud.

The Bone Man reached over to an instrument tray and selected a gleaming cleaver. He lifted it up then brought it down in a smooth arc. The cleaver lopped off the dead man’s right foot.

Up and down the cleaver continued to go, severing various parts with precision. The Bone Man released an occasional grunt whenever dealing with a joint reluctant to separate with ease. After butchering the entire corpse, the Bone Man returned the bloody cleaver to its tray. He turned to the tub and fiddled with some of the dials and buttons on the tub’s control panel.

A short time later, the water came to a rapid boil. He tossed the various dismembered body parts into the tub. The water turned red. Bits of gristle and flesh floated on the water’s turbulent surface. Thick steam filled the air. It obscured the Bone Man’s gleeful smile.

⸸ ⸸ ⸸

A couple hours later, Esteban walked over to his sedan. Shards from the broken beer bottles from earlier glimmered under the parking lot’s lights. Freddie leaned against his own car up ahead. His beret hung back, exposing the majority of his forehead. Esteban found the look so cute and irresistible.

When Esteban joined him, Freddie said, I suddenly feel sober.

Welcome to the land of the living, Esteban said.

It’s awful.

See you tomorrow then?

I won’t be here.

Yeah, and I’ll be a billionaire when I wake up in the morning.

Esteban plucked his car keys from a pants pocket. Freddie took a step closer to him. He placed a hand on the side of Esteban’s neck.

He said, I won’t be here because I have a date tomorrow night.

Have fun, Freddie.

Men are so dumb.

Freddie slid his hand around to the back of Esteban’s neck. Then he urged him closer for a kiss. Esteban pulled him into an embrace. Their kiss deepened. Freddie dropped his hands down to grab Esteban’s firm ass.

Esteban couldn’t recall a more pleasant ending to an evening out than this. There was no more denying their feelings for each other. Now came the fun part: discovering where things would go from here.

III.

Closing time at last. The Pink Carnation was empty of customers. A few lights added a dim sort of ambiance to the execution of the evening’s final duties. Most of all, the barroom was quiet. Serene. Janella’s favorite time of day. She pondered and fantasized in peace, while she racked the last load of clean glasses behind the bar. After completing that task, she turned all the shelved liquor bottles so the labels faced forward.

Behind her, Marci emerged from behind a door marked LADIES. She had her uniform draped over her arm. Her street clothes accentuated her figure. She hoped Janella would notice—how could she not—and finally make a move. If not tonight, she figured it would likely be never.

Janella turned away from fiddling with the bottles. Marci offered her a most radiant smile. Janella returned it with a lackluster nod.

She asked, All set, Marci?

Unless you need me for anything else, Marci said.

Cocking her head to the side, Janella compressed her lips. Marci raised her eyebrows in a subtle invitation, which Janella ignored. That woman! How infuriating!

Janella said, Time to lock up.

I could use some company tonight, Marci said, forcing her smile to remain intact.

"I don’t date