Tombstone Serenade: Strange Tales of Suspense

By Erik Handy

CAN YOU HEAR THE SCREAMS?

 

A rainy day reveals a horrible secret. An alien plague runs wild throughout the Old West. A song promises immortality. A man dreads a phone call from his friend. In Tombstone Serenade, you'll experience these horrors and more!

 

Erik Handy, the author of The Horror and dRain, brings you 11 stories that continue the genre-bending short fiction legacies of H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King. May your screams join the chorus of the damned!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Handy
• Release date: Dec 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9798215612415

Erik Handy

Erik Handy grew up on a steady diet of professional wrestling, bad horror movies that went straight to video, and comic books. There were also a lot of video games thrown in the mix. He currently absorbs silence and fish tacos.

Book preview

Then, The Rain

Rain came down in heavy waves. The street outside looked like a racing stream, emptying the deluge into parts unknown, barely keeping up. That was all right. It was the occasional thunder that made little Randy squirm closer to his mommy. She hushed him and held him under her arm. Meanwhile, his younger brother Billy sat at the window like a statue, watching the show, unfazed by the fury.

I want to play in the sandbox, Billy said. He pointed out the window at the domed outline in their yard.

It’s raining, Martha replied. You can go out after it stops.

Billy didn’t turn around. Can Randy come, too?

Martha squeezed her son. If he wants.

Good.

More thunder sent tremors throughout Randy.

There’s no reason to be afraid, Martha told him.

Yes, there is, he said.

You’re inside where it’s safe.

But what if it comes in?

What will come in?

The thunder.

Martha suppressed a smile. The thunder can’t come inside. It’s an outside thing.

Billy by the window said, Like the sandbox.

Like the sandbox, Martha confirmed.

Randy wasn’t convinced.

But what if it does? he insisted.

It can’t, little boy, Martha said. It’ll get in trouble if it does. We can call the cops on it.

Really?

Really.

But it’s loud.

I know it’s loud, sweetie. Listen. The next time you hear thunder, bark at it.

Randy looked up at his mother. Like a dog?

Like a dog. If you bark loud enough, then it’ll go away. That’s why dogs bark when there’s a storm. To scare it away.

Randy pondered the logic. And if it doesn’t?

Bark again. Okay?

The boy nodded.

Let’s be quiet until we hear it again, Martha said.

Then we’ll bark.

Yup.

They didn’t have to wait long. The rumble rolled for a full second.

Bark, Martha said and she and her son let loose a barking fit that even drew Billy’s dull attention.

Now wait, Martha said.

The only sound was that of rain running off the roof.

Then there was thunder again.

Martha and Randy barked.

Billy dismissively shook his head and then turned back to his watch at the window.

Randy looked up at his mom. Is it working?

Shh.

They listened.

In the distance, thunder rumbled, but since it was so far away, the noise quickly faded.

See, Martha said. You did it. You scared the thunder away.

Randy blushed.

***

The sun was out and the sky was blue again.

The kids were outside playing in the sandbox, building castles or whatever their fancy called for. Martha occasionally glanced out to make sure they were all right while she tidied up around the house. She heard horror stories regarding the messy lives of boys and she thanked the heavens that her two weren’t walking disasters. A toy here and there, but for the most part, her sons cleaned up after themselves.

She looked out the back window again. Now the boys were digging. The sand they scooped out of the hole grew tall. Soon the boys would reach the wood at the bottom.

Martha smiled.

To have that liberating sense of imagination, not tethered to any logic or care. At least she could experience some of that magic through her children. She sometimes wished she could go back in time, but she had the present and that was good enough for her.

She was in the kitchen when she thought she heard a child singing in a nearby room. Thinking it was one of her boys, she called out their names.

There was no response. The soft sing-song continued.

She looked across the living room through the window and saw her boys had piled a huge mound of sand up, obscuring them from her view. They always made noise whenever they entered a room, announcing their presence like princes of old. Maybe they were playing a trick on her. Maybe they were sneaking up on her.

Her grin disappeared when the singing became more distinct. She could make out words here and there.

High . . . low . . .

The song became clearer, but not louder.

Nigger, Nigger, Nigger Joe.

Hanging high.

Swinging low.

When he’ll rot,

No one knows.

Nigger, Nigger, Nigger Joe.

Martha was shocked and appalled at the slur and its benign tone. She never used that language around the boys. It slipped her mind that the singer’s voice belonged to neither son.

Nigger, Nigger, Nigger Joe . . . .

Look up.

Instinctively, she did.

She saw long claw marks on the ceiling – as if an animal had just scurried over her.

Suddenly, she needed to have her boys with her.

Swinging low . . . .

She ran from room to room while the singing continued. She never did find out where it came from. Back in the living room, she began to sob.

When he’ll rot . . . .

The sandbox.

Her children never came inside to surprise her.

She dashed outside, making for the mini-dune that had grown since she last saw it. Was there that much sand in the box to begin with?

It was remarkably quiet outside, no awful singing to taunt her, and she was grateful for that. However, the song was stuck in her head. She wanted to sing it herself, but couldn’t bring herself to sully her tongue.

She rounded the mound of sand.

One of her boys whose name she couldn’t remember because the only name she knew was Nigger, Nigger, Nigger Joe sat beside the metallic skeletal remains of a goat-looking creature. The thing was slightly larger than her son, who now looked up at her. His eyes were filled with milky ebon that pulsed along with Martha’s heartbeat.

Then all she heard was her boy’s voice tell her, Shh. If you’re really quiet you might hear the baluka. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Still your heart. No. You’re too loud. Die. Wait until the worms have their way before they move on. There. Do you hear it now?

Martha did.

***

The cop stared at the thing in the sandbox while the forensics team worked the property.

Looks like a goat, his partner said. Almost like a robo-goat.

The cop grunted.

His partner continued talking, unfortunately. We found what appears to be a woman, maybe the mother. Her arm was in one bedroom. Her breasts in another. No one knows what the hell’s in the kitchen. Maybe parts of the kids. Otherwise no sign of them.

The cop had stopped listening to his partner. He felt a rushing tide in his ears. He didn’t know where it originated. His pulse quickened. It sounded like thunder.

The Rot

They were sixteen coming out of Yuma. Eight men. Eight women. The youngest was eleven or twelve – the girl herself wasn’t sure.

Maybe the Rot got to her brain, Stevens wondered. Nah. That’s not how it works.

The oldest of them was fifty-four. Miss Ann Havensworth. In a past life, before the Rot forced them west, she was a school marm.

Hoity-toity, Stevens thought. Look at her now. Fifty-four going on eighty.

Stevens regarded the others, but couldn’t remember anyone else’s age or name. He was lucky to remember his own. Thirst, hunger, and fatigue whittled his memory.

But not my mind. Damn the Rot. I still know how to tie a knot and which way the sun flies. Not that they matter. Time. Names.

She ain’t looking too good.

Tibbsby.

We all ain’t looking too good, Stevens said, speeding up, hoping to shake the man off.

Speak for yourself. Tibbsby smiled. The man only had a few teeth left.

Stevens ran his tongue over his own. Fortunately, they held fast.

She won’t last much longer, Tibbsby continued.

Who?

"What do you mean who? The old lady you been staring at."

Hm. Guess I have been.

You want a taste of her sweetness?

Not really, Stevens lied. But I reckon you do.

Tibbsby shrugged. Old, young, it don’t matter how much grass grows on the field. These are the end times. Nothing is sacred.

Stevens was grateful when Tibbsby slowed his gait to let the eleven or twelve-year-old girl catch up to him.

He’s right. It don't matter.

***

None of the sixteen knew where the Rot came from. Before they fled their respective homes, word had slowly gotten around that the east was a wasteland. The only way to survive was to run. Bullets, fire, and lye had done nothing to stop the slow spread. The Rot decimated everything.

Wilkins, one of the original refugees, swore he saw a light fall from the sky days before the first sightings of the black ash which took the land.

I wonder what he saw when the Rot caught up with him, Stevens thought. He looked back and Tibbsby had his arm around the little girl. Miss Ann Havensworth was behind them, shuffling and losing ground. She once told them she saw the light from the sky, too.

Stevens considered going back to help her, but he didn’t have the energy. Not for her.

Sorry, Miss Havensworth, he mumbled.

Up ahead was the rest of the group. They huddled together in the waking sun. No one spoke. No energy to do anything but walk. Besides, there was nothing left to say. Rumors and theories flew hard at the onset of their trek to the Pacific. Now, desperation set in.

Rot from both ends.

Yuma was a bust. Those people took what supplies they could and were long gone.

We had to try. Maybe they’ve already reached the ocean.

Or they died on the way, picked off by