Ugly Stories About Terrible People Doing Horrible Things, Volume Two

By Tobin Elliott

UGLY STORIES

Welcome back to thirteen more dark dreams and nefarious nightmares oozing from the deepest, darkest corners of the mind of Tobin Elliott.

TERRIBLE PEOPLE

This second collection harbours more stories of lovers, of family, of frie

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luminous Aphotica Publishing
• Release date: Aug 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9781998827138

Book preview

UGLY

STORIES

ABOUT

TERRIBLE

PEOPLE

DOING

HORRIBLE

THINGS

Volume Two

Advance reviews for

Ugly Stories About Terrible People Doing Horrible Things, Vol. Two

:

Okay, so the thing about Tobin's short stories… you don't want them to end. – Amanda Tonkin

With each story, Elliott pushes the boundaries of the macabre, delivering a reading experience that's equal parts thrilling and unsettling. His unique blend of nostalgia and nightmare will keep you on the edge of your seat, eagerly turning pages while simultaneously dreading what horrors await. – Dr. Marie Lestrange, Author of

Crimson Cobblestones

If you're looking for a horror book that will make you feel uncomfortable, give you the creeps and check over your shoulder... I highly recommend these books. – Samantha Mannone

After devouring these collections back-to-back I’m wrecked. Utterly destroyed. My brain is still noodling over several harrowing scenes as Elliott’s nightmares have now invaded my own. – Diane Klaver

Let me just say, I might have enjoyed Volume 2 even more than Volume 1. – S. Elizabeth Ransdell

Other Books by

Tobin Elliott

The Aphotic Series

Bad Blood

Out For Blood

Blood Loss

Blood Pact

Blood Relations

Flesh and Blood

Story Collections

Ugly Stories About Terrible People Doing Horrible Things, Vol. 1

Ugly Stories About Terrible People Doing Horrible Things, Vol. 2

UGLY STORIES ABOUT TERRIBLE PEOPLE DOING HORRIBLE THINGS

Volume Two

Tobin Elliott

Copyright @ 2024 Tobin Elliott

Luminous Aphotica Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any process—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and Luminous Aphotica Publishing, except for brief quotations in a review.

Fight or Flight originally appeared in Purgatorium: The Element of Horror, published by ID Press, 2016

Giving Up The Ghost originally appeared in Doors of Darkness, by Terrorcore Publishing, 2023

Horse Guts Horse Guts originally appeared in Released, published by No Bad Books Press, 2021

Will To Live originally appeared in Blood Relations, published by Luminous Aphotica, 2023

Sow Far From Home originally published in a different version as Soft Kiss, Hard Death: The Third Sam Truman Mystery by Abattoir Press, 2012

Strange Bedfellows originally appeared as Nightingale in Allucinor: The Element of Romance, published by ID Press, 2017

Art Project originally appeared in Out For Blood, published by Luminous Aphotica, 2022

The Riff originally appeared in Nefariam: The Element of Crime, published by ID Press, 2020

Please purchase only authorized electronic editions from reliable retailers. In doing so, you support the authors and respect their rights. Seriously kids, piracy is bad.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN 978-1-998827-12-1 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-998827-11-4 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-998827-13-8 (ebook)

Cover Design by Camille Codling

(Instagram: @codling.creations)

This one is for, as always, my family who puts up with all this weird shit I write.

It’s also for those who are related to me through DNA. So, a very sarcastic, middle finger salute to those of you who deserve it most. There’s a lot of stories drawn from real life in this one and, honestly, if you weren’t all so screwed up, if you hadn’t shown me all the paths that should never be taken—thereby revealing the ones that should—I never would have had all these stories to tell.

Then again, I also wouldn’t have needed all the therapy, either...

Thank you for helping me not be all the things I wasn't.

I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge my early readers who provided me with invaluable advance reviews, feedback, and error detection.

Every one of you helped make this book better.

Nicole Haugen

TJ Hodder from Tapes of Trepidation

Diane Klaver

Dr. Marie Lestrange

Samantha Mannone

Jordan Murray

Liz Ransdell

Amanda Tonkin

Jonny Ward

If you spot mistakes, don’t blame any of these people. That’s all on me.

Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places.

The Picture in the House

CONTENTS

welcome back to my nightmares

[ask your doctor if you may be a glutton for punishment]

It’s funny how serendipitous some things can turn out.

As I walked my dog this morning, I was listening to an audiobook. It’s an enjoyable hour or so of experiencing a story as I get some exercise, some fresh air, some time with Murphy, my Doberman/ German Shepherd mix, and I get to chew through a lot of books.

This morning, I was listening to a live reading Stephen King did a couple of decades back of his story, L.T.’s Theory of Pets.

The serendipitous thing, however, wasn’t the story itself, but how he introduced it. He mentioned a question he got, which was, Is horror all you write? The interesting part was his answer.

Not on purpose, but it always seems to drift that way.

I’d been casting around for how to open this second volume, and Uncle Stevie just dropped that right into my lap. Thanks, Stephen.

King’s answer immediately brought to mind two separate thoughts for me.

♦ ♦ ♦

The first was, the fact that I stumbled across this quote at the precise moment I needed it was not lost on me. This is what happens to me constantly.

The easiest way I can explain how my imagination works is to say that, when I’m in that writing mode—and also very often when I’m not—I have this subconscious dish that’s constantly powered up and listening for any interesting signals that it captures, much like those SETI dishes do when seeking out extraterrestrial intelligence.

And when something pings—like the King ping I got this morning—I usually stop what I’m doing and grab it before it can wriggle away.

It’s a culmination of all these funny little things that cross my path that end up allowing me to build my stories. The mug I’m drinking from sums it up more concisely:

Careful, or you’ll end up in my novel.

Truer words, folks. Truer words.

♦ ♦ ♦

The second is the actual meat of King’s answer: Not on purpose, but it always seems to drift that way.

One of the statements I hear a lot is, do you write anything other than horror? You’re a funny guy, have you ever tried humour?

A google search will turn up an old blog of mine where I often told funny stories about my family, so yeah, there’s times when I can keep the dark and scary at bay.

But when it comes to fictionalizing, I’ve tried writing science fiction, I even gave a mystery novel a shot. But I always drift back to horror.

Maybe it was my upbringing—god knows you’re in for a few stories from that era shortly—or maybe it’s my outlook. Maybe one influenced the other. Who knows?

Maybe I just like writing about dark stuff.

Whatever the answer is, it’s where my head goes when I start putting down words.

With that, I’ll shut up and let you read the stories. Let yourself drift away.

And, as you drift away, let me welcome you once again to my nightmares.

Tobin Elliott

July 2024

part one:

FRIENDS & FAMILY

"Some of the most poisonous people

come disguised as friends and family."

Unknown

ev

The coffee cup hit the floor. Evelyn is dead.

Ileen looked at the mess of porcelain and coffee on the flowered linoleum. Did I drop that? She must have…there was no one else in the apartment. She grabbed some paper towels and started to mop up the mess, mindful of the sharp splinters. Wouldn’t do to cut herself. She found at this age, any cut seemed to bleed forever. Must be her thin blood.

Blood. Evelyn was dead.

♦ ♦ ♦

Ileen had just taken a break from the sewing she had been doing all morning to grab a cup of coffee before noon. She couldn’t drink it after that because the caffeine would keep her up all night. Up all night, she thought. Good Lord. Fifty years ago, she would have loved being able to stay up all night—had even done it more than her fair share—but now it was annoying as hell. She had just taken the first cautious sip when it had hit her. Just like it had thirty-eight years ago. Only this time…?

This time, Ev was dead.

As her hands picked up the shards, her mind wandered to the memories of Evelyn. Her sister-in-law. Well, ex-sister-in-law. She hadn’t seen or even heard from Ev in…what? …thirty-five years? Not since Ileen’s divorce. When Ileen divorced Bill, his whole family looked at her as the bitch that broke their beloved brother as much as she broke up the marriage. Yeah, and wasn’t that a good one? She drove Bill to get plastered every night. She drove him to screw all those women. She was the one that told him to come home and give her the clap. She was the one that asked for the face slaps and body blows. All while she raised their three kids.

Ileen broke Bill. Wasn’t that hilarious? Wasn’t that just a knee-slapper?

If only I could have broken him, she thought.

For some reason, Ev seemed almost to take the divorce personally. Ileen never knew why.

And now? She never would. Ev was dead.

♦ ♦ ♦

In her time, Ev had been a looker. Raven black hair, wicked green eyes, and bright red lips. All the guys loved Ev, and she loved all the attention. She smoked them like a cigarette: burned and cast aside. There was always another waiting in line. Until Bernie.

Bernie had been a wild man. Hard drinkin’ hard fightin’ hard lovin’. Ev had finally met her match. It wasn’t long until they were married. Then came the fights.

Ileen smiled. When you married a Higgins, there was always fights. There was never a wedding, a party, or a funeral that didn’t end up in a fist fight. Usually Higgins brother versus Higgins brother, though Ev, the Higgins sister got more than her share of punches and kicks in when the opportunity arose. But not just weddings, parties, and funerals. There were also birthdays, Christmases, and New Years get-togethers made for scrapping.

The guys would get to drinking, then to arguing, then to punching, but they always ended up arm in arm slurring Auld Lang Syne and swearing their love for each other. Usually just before they kicked the snot out each other again before the ride home. Sometimes in their own cars. Sometimes in police cars.

Twenty years. Ileen put up with that for twenty years. Ev even longer.

But Ileen and Ev never really were close. They weren’t enemies by any means. They just didn’t have that much to say to each other.

Except for that one night.

Even now, almost fifty years past, Ileen still gets the shakes just thinking about it. And the images are still as fresh as they were that night. Jesus.

♦ ♦ ♦

It happened in June, 1958. It had been hotter than hell that day. The kids had been extra wild that day, running through the sprinkler, then through the house. Running around like a fart in a mitt, as Ileen would say. She didn’t know what it exactly meant, but she’d picked it up from her own mother as a kid.

As the day had worn on, she’d mopped up mud and grass about fifteen times, and every damn time, Bill would send one of the kids in to get him another beer, and out would come the mop again. Bill and the kids had got themselves a good tan. All Ileen had to show for it was a sore back and sweat stains. Half of that was because Bill wouldn’t let her wear shorts. Wouldn’t want all the guys in the neighborhood checking out his wife’s gams would we?

Jesus, did I really let him do that to me? Through the lens of hard-won maturity and hard-fought independence, it seemed so foreign to her now.

After clearing up the dinner dishes, and bathing Shelley and Marty and getting them to bed, she settled down on the couch to watch a little Ed Sullivan. She couldn’t stay awake, and neither could Bill. He fell asleep in front of the television at the best of times, but get a few beers into him...

Ileen didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, but there was nothing but white noise on the TV when she woke up.

Isn’t that funny? This was the first time she could actually remember that she woke up and then had the nightmare.

The rest of it she remembers vividly, as though it was yesterday.

She remembers getting up, shutting off the TV, and heading into the kitchen for a drink of water. She remembers that it was still unbearably hot, even in the middle of the night. And she remembers what happened as she crossed the threshold from the living room to the kitchen…

Like she’d walked into a different world.

Blood. Blood everywhere. There’s blood everywhere. On the floor. The walls. The ceiling. Splashed everywhere, like some crazy Jackson Pollock painting. The smell of it hits her like a gunshot, sending her reeling, falling back. The coppery smell so strong she can taste it in the back of her throat. Makes her gag. The blood is running down the walls. Screaming. The blood is screaming. No. Not the blood. It’s a person. Jesus, someone is still alive here. How can there still be life in a room of blood? And then she sees her. Ev. It’s Ev. She’s sprawled half on the couch, half on the floor. Blood surrounding her. Blood all over her. It all comes from her. She looks up, not seeing. Help me, she says in a voice so quiet, so weak, it can’t be far from death.

And as suddenly as it started, the vision stopped.

Gone.

Ileen stood on the threshold of her kitchen, one arm thrown out to a nearby chair, panting and gasping for air. She was going to be sick. Bill would kill her if she sicked on the floor. Bill.

Ev’s brother.

She looked back at him. He was still asleep, snoring softly with his mouth hanging slackjawed like an idiot. Completely unaware of what…

Of what? What the hell had just happened? What had she just gone through? Was it a dream? Or a vision?

Or a cry for help? Jesus Christ! Evelyn was dying!

"Bill! Bill! Jesus Christ, Bill, Get up! Your sister’s dying!"

Her husband, half asleep and all drunk, looked at her uncomprehendingly, his eyes bleary, and glassy. He wiped the spit from his lower lip. Hunh? Wha? My sis? Wha?

Ileen grabbed his shoulder and shook him. She stumbled out a mostly incoherent scramble of what she had just seen. Ev. Blood. Dying. Help. It didn’t even make sense to her, so how the hell would he get it?

He didn’t.

Bill gave his wife the standard you gotta be kidding me look. Are you outta yer damn mind, woman? he asked. "You saw Ev dyin’ in her house from our kitchen? Jesus, what’s next? Flyin’ saucers? He lumbered to his feet like a punch drunk boxer. I’m goin’ t’ bed. Kill th’ TV, willya?"

As he wobbled down the hall to the bedroom, she could still hear him. Oooo! ‘Yer sister’s dyin’, Bill.’ Chrissakes.

She shut off the television, and stood in the darkness. But it had seemed so damn real.

She couldn’t stand it. Bill would probably kill her, but she had to go. She had to.

She grabbed the keys and left.

♦ ♦ ♦

Ten minutes later Ileen pulled up to Ev and Bernie’s house. There were no lights on. Like every other house on the block. What was she doing here? Was she losing her mind? She shook her head. Bill would just love telling all his drinking buddies what a retard his wife was. She could just about hear him now.

Ileen put the car into reverse, and started to back out. As she swung out to the road, her headlights glanced off the glass in the storm door. The storm door. It should have been closed, but it was hanging out at an angle. She pulled back in, got out of the car, and quietly walked back up to the house.

And straight into hell. Only this time it was real.

♦ ♦ ♦

It was just as she had seen it the first time. Blood was everywhere, just as she had seen it. But this time she knew where to look. And there, by the couch, was Ev. Half on the couch, half on the floor. As Ileen stepped into the room, the same smell of copper hit her, and this time her stomach couldn’t be stopped. It seemed like everything she had eaten for the last week came up as she dropped to her knees. Then she saw it. There. Under the coffee table, right by Ev’s leg. A broken wine bottle. With a flap of fabric…no. Skin. It had a flap of skin hanging from a jagged edge.

Ileen threw up again.

As soon as her stomach was under control, Ileen got over to Ev and felt for a pulse. Thin, but still there. Without thinking any further, she pulled her up and somehow managed to get her to the car. And from there to the hospital. Of that she still can’t remember a damn thing.

♦ ♦ ♦

Evelyn somehow managed to survive. Her attacker was never apprehended, but in those days, the sins between husband and wife were easier to cover up. Besides, Bernie had to face all the Higgins brothers. All at one time. There were pieces of Bernie that never made it through that encounter.

It became one of those family incidents that was never mentioned again, and somehow, the question of how Ileen knew to go there was never raised. It brought Ileen and Evelyn closer for a time, until some stupid trivial thing wedged itself between them and pushed them apart yet again. Then Ileen’s marriage was gone and, with it, any reason to talk.

Soon, even the memories became dim, as they got pushed down by the weight of newer ones. Until today, when Ileen went to take that sip of coffee she would never taste. Because she saw a hospital room, filled with wires and tubes and machines. And Ev. So much