Dark Secrets

There are sinister happenings lurking behind the closed doors of your Local nurse, high school prom queens, and next door neighbors. Not all is as it appears. But is it ever?

After all, how well do you know your coworkers?

Your friends?

Your wife?

We all have secrets, but some of our secrets

• Language: English
• Publisher: Madhouse Books
• Release date: Nov 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985186567

Book preview

Stories of Sheer Terror

Edited by

Jade Cinders

Dark

Secrets

Dark Secrets

Paperback edition ISBN: 979-8-9851865-5-0

Electronic edition ISBN: 979-8-9851865-6-7

Published by Madhouse Books

Spring Valley, California

http://www.MadhouseBooks.com

Second Edition: November 2022

Copyright © 2022 by Madhouse Books

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, distributed, or transmitted by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or other electronical or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to locales or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

‘The Discovery © John Bukowski 2022

‘Life Savings’ © Tom Nicholson 2022

‘The Patsy’ © Carlton Herzog 2022

‘Us and Them’ © Christopher Ryan 2022

‘First Taste’ © Benjamin DeHaan 2022

‘Between You and Me’ © Andrew Coe 2022

‘Asleep with the Smiths’ © Renee Lehnen 2022

‘Joe Aster’s Train’ © Alex Reid 2022

‘Oh, Honey, You Shouldn’t Have’ © Andrée Gendron 2022

‘Diving Boots, Land-Locked Town’ © SJ Townsend 2022

‘Prom Queens’ © HL Cornetto 2022

‘Leviathan’ © Danielle Davis 2022

‘When Life Begins © Kenneth Levine 2022

‘Until I’m Happy’ © Shaun Avery 2022

‘Credit Limit’ © Ashley Bowen 2022

‘Tail Lights’ © Anthony Ferguson 2022

Contents

The Discovery by John Bukowski

Life Savings by Tom Nicholson

The Patsy by Carlton Herzog

Us and Them by Christopher Ryan

First Taste by Benjamin DeHaan

Between you and me by Andrew Coe

Asleep with the smiths by Renee Lehnen

Joe Aster’s Train by Alex Reid

Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have by Andree Gendren

Diving Boots, land-locked town by SJ Townsend

Prom Queens by HL Cornetto

Leviathan by Danielle Davis

When Life Begins by Kenneth Levine

Until I’m Happy by Shaun Avery

Credit Limit by Ashley Bowen

Tail Lights by Anthony Ferguson

The Discovery

By John Bukowski

The brush hog’s engine changed pitch, idling down amidst a growl of rusted metal and worn rubber. Blue exhaust rumbled into the humid air, adding its oily stink to the formidable smells of mold, earth, and broken plant life that hugged County Road 514 like a craz y quilt.

What up? Kyle shouted.

Something caught in the cutter, Harlan yelled. Hear that groan?

More a track than a road, CR 514 stood deserted since Consolidated Mining closed the shaft that was its reason for being. Over the years, nature reclaimed its territory, new saplings rising from the rutted bed like silent sentinels, branches from the hillside shaking hands with their brothers in the ravine on the other side of the solitary track. But talk of ‘clean coal’ brought word of opening old number eleven again. Foreman Harvey Ruger got his orders and passed them down to Harlan and Kyle. Take the boom cutter down 514 and clear a path for a grader.

Kyle, the junior man a year out of Booneville High, walked in front with a chainsaw, slicing through the saplings arrayed against the Kubota tractor, while Harlan, a veteran of eight years with Consolidated, sat in the cabin smoking and swinging the arm of the DZ9 rotary cutter against the foliage on the hillside. They’d moved steadily for the last ninety minutes, Kyle six to eight feet in front of the creeping Kubota. But now the tractor was a dozen feet behind, its progress stopped.

Kyle clicked off the chainsaw and tugged the muffs from his big ears, almost sending his University of Kentucky cap onto the rutted bed. "I can’t hear shit, what with these on, the saw, the cutter, and all. What up?"

Harlan shook his head, a stream of cigarette smoke joining the oily blue of the diesel. "It’s what’s up. You sound like some corn-rowed rapper with that shit. Flicking his butt through the window, Harlan peered out at the end of the swing arm. Go see what Daisy’s got in her craw."

You crazy? I ain’t reaching into that thing till you kill the motor.

Don’t be a pussy. I got the power take-off to idle, and I’ll put the safety brake on. Nothin’ gonna happen.

Un uh. Shut the motor off first.

We’ll use a gallon of diesel getting her goin’ again, Harlan said with a shake of his dark-blue cap, CG-49 embroidered on the crown in faded gold. She’s fine as is. Just reach up there and feel around. Sounds like something wrapped around the base of the blades.

Kyle tentatively approached the hillside, then paused.

Go on, Harlan ordered.

The young road worker walked over, placed one glove on the tractor’s knobby tire, and then paused again.

Pussy, Harlan said.

Kyle flinched, then muttered something as he crept up the hillside.

What was that, rookie? asked Harlan.

None of your damn business, said Kyle, ignoring the laughter from the Kubota’s cab.

Kyle hung his left arm over the swing arm, then gingerly reached toward the business end of the DZ9. His hand withdrew involuntarily as his fingers touched the edge of the blades, razor-sharp even through the canvas of his work glove. He thought briefly of big mechanical teeth, then rubbed his glove over his sweatshirt, took a deep breath, and reached back to feel along the base of the axle holding the cutters to the housing. He’d no more than found something pliable wound around the smooth steel when the diesel revved to life with a loud roar, sending him sprawling on his ass.

The engine died again, replaced by Harlan’s laughter filling the damp air like a rumble of thunder. Pussy! Harlan bent his head back, more laughter echoing against the hillside. Need to change your diaper before trying again?

Kyle scrambled to his feet, brushing off his jeans and glaring at the laughing face in the cab. Fuckhead! I coulda lost an arm.

I told ya I cut the power-take off, numb nuts. I could gun this here motor till Rapture, and it wouldn’t do nothing but make noise. Now go on, give Daisy the once over.

Still muttering, Kyle scrambled back up the hill. He looked toward the tractor and said, No more happy horseshit, okay?

Harlan winked. Go on, puss.

Kyle once more hung under the cutter and reached into the blades, returning his hand to the source of the obstruction. He expected to feel the tough, slick sinew of new growth snaked around the spindle, sap oozing over green leaves. But something else was wrapped firmly around the metal. Taking off his glove, his fingers explored the object, which was slick with dew and plant juices, but not a plant. It was tougher than wood or leaves and oddly shaped, maybe an inch and a half wide and a quarter inch thick.

His hand spiraled along the band’s slippery surface until it left the axle at a taut angle. Following the angle to its source, his exploring fingers found a smooth piece of metal wedged into the housing. He grasped the metal carefully, then gave a couple of good yanks, but it held firm against the housing.

What you got? yelled Harlan.

Not sure, said Kyle, reaching into his back pocket for a pair of pruning shears. Guiding the blades to the taut strap, he confirmed that his fingers were clear of the sharp edges, then snipped. Given some slack, the metal was easily dislodged from the housing. He held it to the sunlight filtering into the holler.

What you got? repeated Harlan.

Kyle smiled and raised his trophy. Belt buckle.

I’ll be damned.

Kyle tossed away the buckle, leather trailing like a bon-voyage streamer, then reached back into the blades to unwrap the belt from the axle. The brown leather was covered with plant juices and something else that was tacky against his skin. He managed to unwind three-quarters of it before meeting resistance. He gave the grimy material one tug, then two, but it wouldn’t budge. Replacing his glove, Kyle spat onto both canvas palms, then grasped the belt firmly with two hands. With a grim determination that made his young features look more comic than fierce, he took a deep breath and pulled in a final all-or-nothing jerk. Jagged leather broke free, and something white flew over his shoulder to the tractor’s hood.

Belt dangling from one hand, he waved the other in front of his nose. Lawd! It stinks in here.

Kyle heard the engine first spiral down in revs, then die unceremoniously. Turning to Harlan, he said, Jesus Christ. Wouldn’t shut her off when I had my goddam hand in there, but now that I pulled the fucker free, you kill the motor. What the…

Harlan’s jaw was slack, his skin the color of whole milk.

Harl? said Kyle. You okay? You look like you seen….

Harlan pointed a trembling hand at the hood of the Kubota.

Kyle followed his partner’s gaze to a fat, white worm, maybe three inches long. Shiny metal glinted from the base of it. Leaning over the hood for a closer look revealed a human finger, a ring wedged into the rotting flesh, costume-jewelry ruby glinting from the cheap setting.

Sweet Jesus, said Kyle.

Kyle’s nose again caught the stench of decay as his eyes moved within inches of the strange object. Remembering where he’d smelled it before, he scrambled back under the idle blades of the DZ9.

Steeling against the ripe stench that outpaced the stink of exhaust and chlorophyll, he peered into the shadow cast by the cutter. There, trapped among the interwoven branches, was a hand, a lady’s watch wrapped around the wrist, painted nails twinkling in the half-light, ring finger only a rotted stump. The hand protruded from a pink cuff. Additional pink material was faintly visible within the latticework, with ripped denim protruding plainly from the greenery. He waved his work glove before his face and retreated to the Kubota.

The rest of her’s behind the overgrowth, he said. Whoever she is. The young man turned toward the tractor. Fire up the Bota so we can swing Daisy out of … But the cab was empty.

Harlan? No answer. Yo, Harl!

The sound of coughing from the far side of the tractor sent Kyle dashing over.

The senior member of the team was bent over, remnants of coffee and donuts lying between his knees in a congealed mass.

I’ll be goddamned, said Kyle with a smug grin. Who’s the pussy, now?

Harlan waved him off and grunted, Shut the fuck up.

You okay?

Harlan nodded and rose unsteadily.

I thought you was in the service.

"I was in the Navy, rook. Harlan removed his cap to swab his brow with an old, red hanky. A year on a guided-missile cruiser and two years at a recruiting office don’t really prepare you for … He pointed toward the tractor. That."

Kyle nodded back, his shit-eating grin faded to a hint. How do you think she got there? Out hiking, you think?

Harlan dusted his work pants with his cap, then replaced the cap on his head. Out here? Shit. Then what’d she do? Crawl into the brushwood to have a heart attack?

So what else could … Kyle’s jaw dropped. You don’t think somebody ….

Harlan looked down the way they’d come. What I want to know is, how’d he get her here?

Kyle shrugged. The road, what else?

How, numbnuts? Tractor couldn’t make it till we hacked out a path. Besides, you see any tire tracks? Or even bike tracks?

Kyle looked at the long stretch of road they’d cleared, then at the overgrowth and saplings marching off in the other direction. Sweet Jesus.

What’d he do? said Harlan. Haul her two miles on his shoulders, like Robin fuckin’ Hood with a damn deer?

A flashbulb popped in Kyle’s mind as he dashed back up the hillside. Peering into the undergrowth, he pointed to the crest of the wood-choked slope and asked, What’s up top?

Harlan squinted in the same direction. Ought to be SR 27. She runs parallel a ways, then swerves east toward Elwood. Why?

Kyle was already scrambling higher into the hill, trying to squeeze and duck into gaps in the dense foliage. Shit, he cried, rubbing the blood off a scrape on his temple.

You okay?

Yeah, said Kyle, scrambling down to the tractor. He opened and closed the cab door, then scooted back up the hill, a pair of long-handled branch cutters clearing a narrow path.

What the hell you doing, rook?

Kyle’s popped his head through a gap in the broken branches, sunlight and sound muffled by the bower surrounding him. As the light dimmed, the odor increased. A claustrophobically cloying mixture of new growth and dead flesh. He held his breath and trekked on.

Got us a deer track or something back here. Heads up the hill. Nice steep grade.

Holy shit, said Harlan’s receding voice, comprehension dawning.

Kyle snatched a quick breath, then said, Stop your car up on 27, late at night. Take out the body, and ….

Dump her down the hill, finished Harlan’s distant voice. That’s one mystery we got solved.

That ain’t all we got, said Kyle, looking at the gruesome scene before him in the darkness of the hillside. Sweet Jesus.

What? Harlan’s far-off question was barely audible.

We got us another one.

#

Kyle tumbled out of the thicket, coughing and waving his hand past his mouth. Sweet Jesus.

Harlan to base, come back.

The yellow walkie-talkie squawked to life. This here’s base. What you want, Harl?

The voice belonged to Jessup Powell, Harvey Ruger’s number two. It sounded like its owner, loud, gruff, and full of shit.

The second one’s mostly bones, said Kyle. Sweet Jesus. Must have been there months. He tossed a beat-up high-heel shoe by the Kubota’s tire. Found this.

Shush, said Harlan.

The walkie-talkie squawked again. I said this is base. Over.

Harlan thumbed the mic button. Let me talk to Harve. Over.

He’s not here. I’m holding the fort. Now, why ain’t you working instead of wasting company time on the goddam squawker?

Harlan almost saw Jesse’s belly bouncing with each puff of bad breath. We got us a situation here, Jess.

"Where the hell is here? Over"

Sweet Jesus, said Kyle.

Harlan shushed the rookie again. Me and Kyle are about two miles down 514, clearing brush with the Kubota. Over.

"So, what the fuck’s your situation? squawked Jesse. Rookie gotta go boom boom on the potty?"

Well, said Harlan, clearing his throat. We got us a body. Over.

A what?

Body, said Harlan. In the brush. Gore rose to his throat again. Daisy cut off a finger, and there it was.

Somebody lost a finger in the cutter? asked the walkie-talkie. You need a doctor?

No doctor, mumbled Harlan. Maybe the coroner.

What? said Jesse. Didn’t copy. Come back.

Harlan spoke slowly and loudly into the mic. I said, we uncovered a body in the brush on the hillside. It looks to have rolled down from 27. Over.

There was a long pause before Jesse asked, Car accident? The macho bullshit had left the assistant foreman’s tone.

Not unless there were two accidents, months apart, said Harlan. Over.

What’s that? Over.

Looks like two bodies. One mostly bones. Harlan shushed another Kyle. Sweet Jesus, then thumbed the mic again. Somebody must a dumped ‘em here. Over.

A longer pause made Harlan think he’d lost the connection. He started to thumb the mic again when the yellow box squawked.

No shit?

No shit. As the diesel stink wafted away, the telltale odor of death oozed into the humid air of the holler. Harlan fought back more queasiness. Better send the cops. Another long pause. I said, you better….

Roger that, said Jesse, his voice taking on an officious tenor. I’ll get on it. Ah, don’t touch nothing. Over.

Roger. Harlan out. He tossed the talker onto the seat of the Kubota.

Sweet Jesus, said Kyle.

You already said that.

#

The pair stood a couple of dozen yards down the cleared path, the tractor sitting idly in the distance. Harlan took a drag on his Lucky, then held it out to Kyle. You want one?

Kyle shook his head.

It’ll help clear away the smell, said Harlan.

Kyle’s ball cap shook again. Never took up the habit.

Harlan shrugged, then blew more smoke into the damp air. Swatting at something biting his neck, he said, Good for you.

You think there’s more of ‘em? asked Kyle.

Hmm?

More bodies? He nodded toward the hillside.

I thought you said there were two.

I ain’t no CSI, said Kyle. I seen bones, a gnawed foot, and some clothes, that’s all. Then I got the hell out of there. Lawd.

Harlan breathed more smoke. It helped his gut stop wincing. What kind of clothes?

Well, said Kyle, There was the fuck-me heel. And something that might have been a halter top. He thought for a moment. Maybe a short skirt, that phony leather shit.

Hooker clothes, said Harlan, taking another drag.

Kyle shrugged. It was dark. And Lawd, the stink. Sweet…

Jesus, finished Harlan. I know.

Kyle looked down the road. So, when do the cops get here?

Harlan stomped his butt under a size-eleven work boot. Jesse’s got to report to Harve first; then the law got to drive over from Elwood or Lucasville. Then they got to drive slow coming down this cluster-fuck of a road. He shrugged. Takes time.

I wish you’d talked to Harvey instead of Jesse Powell. I don’t like that asshole.

Harlan fished out another Lucky and lit it with a Bic. Yeah, Jesse takes some getting used to.

Tell you one thing. He better stop callin’ me punk. I hate when he does that. Get off your ass, punk. Fetch me a coke from the cooler, punk. He calls me that one more time, and I’ll….

What? said Harlan with a smirk. The older man nodded when his partner didn’t answer. Yep. That’s what I thought. Puffs of smoke punctuated each word. He got you buffaloed?

Hell no, said Kyle, a little too stridently. I ain’t scared of him. Them fat assholes are mostly talk.

"Yeah? Then, tell you what. When he gets here, why don’t you tell him to stop callin’ you punk? What you say?"

Kyle started to \speak, mouth hanging open, scarlet flushing his cheeks, then looked down as if his boot laces were untied.

Harlan let the humbled rookie stew for a few seconds, then bent back his head and laughed into the humid air.

What’s the fuckin’ joke, growled Kyle, his face a mask of embarrassment.

Harlan shook his head as he drew on his smoke. The joke is…. He flicked the butt into the brush. "That fat asshole is mostly talk."

Kyle’s look changed from mortification to mystification. What you mean?

Harlan waved him closer as if he were sharing a secret. Let me tell you a little story. He pulled another smoke from his pack and lit up.

There was this time, last year it was, just before you hired on. We was shorin’ up the culvert where 27 comes off 31. You know the spot?

Kyle nodded.

Getting it ready to take the weight of twenty tons of Kenworth and anthracite. Anyways, we’re driving four-bys under the bridge, me, Ralph, and Jesse—although Jess is doing more sittin’ than hammerin.’ Being all supervisorial, you know how he is?

Kyle nodded again.

Anyways, this fine car pulls up. Mustang convertible, maybe 2015 or 16. Candy apple red. Fine ride. Smoke curled from his nostrils as he spoke. It pulls up in a cloud of dust, and this fine set of legs gets out—short, painted-on shorts. Shirt Daisy May’d under this fine set of jugs. She gets out and grins this big-ass smile. He shook his head. "Smile could have stopped a charging bull. Then she says in this sweet high voice. Can you gents help a lady in distress?"

What’d she want?

Directions. Seems this sweet young thing just came up from Rocky Top or some such. Needed to get to a job interview in Lucasville.

Job doing what?