Tribulations Read online

  Tribulations

  Stories by Richard Thomas

  Cemetery Dance Publications

  Baltimore, MD

  2016

  Copyright © 2016 by Richard Thomas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cemetery Dance Publications

  132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7

  Forest Hill, MD 21050

  http://www.cemeterydance.com

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-58-767556-0

  Front Cover Artwork © 2016 by Lynne Hansen Design

  Digital Design by Dan Hocker

  INTRODUCTION

  A good collection of horror stories will, at two in the morning, direct your car more to Motel 6 than Super 8, say. Just because you want to be in a room where someone’s left the light on for you.

  Tribulations does that for you, yes. Or, Richard Thomas is doing that for Motel 6.

  Either way, it’s delivering the creepy visuals, the prose that worms into your head and crawls around on the backside of your skull.

  And we ask for that, don’t we?

  We stand at the register and we lay down our money fully expecting to not be able to turn the lights off that night.

  But that’s just what we expect from our horror. That’s the minimum horror has to do to satisfy.

  A really good collection of horror stories, then—like this one you’re holding in your hands—it does that and it provides something else, something even creepier and crawlier, something wormier and altogether less comfortable. Something you wouldn’t necessarily ask for.

  A really good collection of horror stories can give us a glimpse into the writer’s head. Reading Tribulations, a story or two in, you’re thinking this is normal, this is what I paid for, bring it, Thomas.

  But then.

  There’ll be an image or a construction that seeps up to the surface for the second or second-and-a-half time, and you’ll look away from the page, trying to recall exactly where this happened before.

  In something else you were reading?

  No, no—it was just a few minutes ago, wasn’t it?

  It was here.

  And then you read for another little bit, get drawn in by the pacing, by the tension, by the language—Richard Thomas knows his craft, has good instincts—and it happens again: you’ve recognized a girl, say. Not her specifically, but the way she’s described, but “described” isn’t even the right word for this. It’s the way the light of the story is shining on her. It’s her shadow on the wall.

  That’s a shadow Tribulations has been fascinated with for a while, now.

  But that’s not right either.

  That’s a girl Richard Thomas can’t seem to look away from. What it comes to feel like is a corruption in him, that he’s trying to infect us with, so as to save himself.

  You don’t come to suspect this in every horror collection. Too many of them are just Greatest Hits. Too many are just the writer standing in the story closet, trying on the vampire jacket, the mummy glasses, the ghost shoes.

  A strong horror collection, though, it’s got a purpose. It’s the writer trying to unburden him or herself of something corrupt, something not so much with teeth but with arms that reach around from behind to caress you, to pull you back into itself and whisper into your ears for the rest of however long you’ve got.

  And, how long you’ve got, it’s not long, it’s never long.

  Too, though, it can feel a lot like forever.

  So, read this if you dare, read it with gloves on, with protective eye gear, with your mind encased in mental plastic.

  It won’t matter.

  There’s something corrupt here.

  And she’s watching us from between these lines.

  Be careful.

  Stephen Graham Jones

  Salt Lake City, September 2015

  Fireflies

  When the winds come, the hut shakes and I grab the tabletop, the heavy wood carved centuries ago, scarred and pitted by time. I wait for the roof to rip off, exposing me to some giant hand, pulling me into the sky to be punished for my sins. The beams creak and moan, and in the gaps I hear her voice. I beg her to shut up, to leave me alone, but the dull ache that wraps around my plodding heart, it trembles and hesitates, apologizes for snapping at her, my love, and asks her for forgiveness. And she gives it, freely.

  The scrap of paper dances in the wooden bowl, the printed type from another time, so long ago, when machines still ruled the world. It nestles into the handful of buckeyes, their dull red orbs rolling around—a fluttering eagle feather next to the pink fleshy lining of an aging conch shell. I’ve memorized the serial number that runs along the bottom, the bent edges of the stained slip, once a shiny white stock, now a dull, faded yellow. The solitary word used to make me laugh. Isabella and I would dance in their glow, mocking the insects, asking them to take us home—to smother us in their amber. I don’t laugh about them anymore.

  After the winds start up it isn’t long until the black rain beats down upon the tin roof, sheets of metal scraps stolen from ruptured airplanes that dot the island, bent and fastened by my tired, mangled hands. When the door swings open, I’m not surprised—the latch has been busted for days now, and my hope was that it would fix itself, the wood warped and swollen, praying for the doorframe to shift back to its former self. Shadows drift in from the field, lightning fracturing the night. The long grass bends, rippling in the flash of light, photos taken as her arms raise and lower, long legs extended, leaping, and I shake my head, squint my eyes shut, and beg for more time. Not tonight. I’m too fragile to handle the haunting.

  And then it is quiet. She is gone, my memory of her body, her giving curves and gentle fingers fading into the night. Beyond the field lies the edge of the cliff, and beyond that is the water of a never ending ocean, black as tar, a universe expanding, calling me to take the long swim home.

  At the edges there is a history, a blur of wagons and horses, bodies piled high, the stench taking on a physical weight, splintered doors slamming shut like gunshots as the dead were taken away. She was taken away, and for nothing more than a ripe peach hanging from an abandoned tree, the orchard ripe with flies and decaying nectar. But the disease had taken hold already, whatever we called the mutation then, the plague had come home to roost, to rest—to unfold.

  “Isabella,” I sigh, a wave of moonlight crossing the field, crawling over the lush grass, wandering inside the hut. I light the candles that sit in a melted pile, now that the winds have died down. The box of matches is running low, a trip to the town square near at hand.

  The howling will start soon, the rabid pack of mongrels coming to sniff at the cracks of my homestead, licking at the sap that plugs the gaps, snuffling at the door, rattling the frame with their dark, wet snouts, pissing on it and moving on in a sickening mass of dark, hairy flesh. There is little time to fix the latch, but I must.

  On the wall hang a few handmade instruments—bent metal and wood stained with the slick oil of my flesh. I am not a blacksmith nor am I a carpenter. These tools are about all I have. Heavy rocks work just as well and sometimes I get lucky in the wreckage, a steel beam or bar changing the way that my life staggers on. So many times I’ve frayed the flesh of my fingers just to steal a bolt or two, a handful of nuts and nails taken from the bent and empty metal birds. And to what end? In a few days when I’m drained by the sunlight tha
t beats down on this solitary rock, the heat will push me down until I collapse in the sand on the east side of the island, seashells spilling from my hands. Or the exhaustion will leave me in the meadow, covered in tiny cuts from the sharp blades of grass that surround me, lost to time and place. The black winged beasts will descend on my homestead, pecking at the shiny objects, these diseased children of the raven and magpie. The dogs will take what is left, I don’t know why, scattering the bits of metal far and wide, the dull pieces of steel picked up by the deformed rodents that live in the caves down by the water. They mock me. But I continue. She tells me to carry on.

  I take down the bastard screwdriver and malformed hammer and push at the lock that protrudes from the door, trying to straighten it out, to solidify this pitiful lock, so that the demon beasts will not get in tonight.

  The wind picks up again as I crouch in the doorway, the coolness washing over my slick skin, and the grass waves back and forth, telling me to come lay down in the damp finery of their offerings, and for a moment, I stop and consider doing just that.

  No. The latch.

  I lick my lips and bend the piece of metal, the rusted tongue eluding my clumsy fingers, the metal in my hand slipping, running a gash through my left hand. I shove my palm into my mouth, cursing as I sup the liquid, knowing that it will surely draw them out. And at the edge of the field there is a flickering of lights, dots of yellow fading in and out—they’ve smelled the humanity that drips onto the stone porch, the slab of grey rock dotted with discs of red and I hurry to bend the metal straight.

  To my left the glowing circles meander across the night sky, taking their time. They have all night to play with me and I have nowhere to go. My eyes stay on them, watching as they pulse in and out, slowly moving across the field, the cool metal in my hands finally bending. I check my work, lifting the latch up and down, my eyes drawn back to the field and to my handiwork. I step inside and close the door, their night music fading behind the dense wood. Sliding the lock in place, I tug on the brass knob and it holds, it is solid, and the shadows pour over the edge of the cliff, stretching and shrinking, eager to test my work. I rattle the knob one more time.

  I sit down at the table, the old wooden chair creaking under my weight, as the panic drains out of my skin, my face falling into my open hands, muffling a sob that has been building all day.

  “Oh, Isabelle,” I moan. “Help me, my love.”

  I can hear them circling the house, their hot rancid breath coming out in gasps, the wet lapping of their tongues in the air, teeth clicking, snapping at each other as their hackles raise and a heavy wind pushes against the house. I don’t want to blow out the candles—they give me comfort and warmth. I’ve only just lit them with my dwindling supply of matches—but I do it anyway.

  “Go away,” I yell, and they yip and bark, excited by my anger, hoping to lure me outside, wanting the confrontation—willing me to take them on tonight. I hear a clang of metal on the slab outside and creep over to look between the cracks. A body slams against the door and I fall backwards, my heart stuttering, a long bit of rusted rebar lying on the rock like a sacrifice. I smile against all logic. I grin in the darkness despite my need to piss, my stomach rolling and unfurling—they want me to take this weapon, they’re trying to even up the odds. Manipulative bastards.

  Another heavy weight is flung against the door and I worry the latch will not hold. There is a sharp cry and the furry beasts move away from the front of the hut, and I hear the animals disappear behind the house. A gathering of yellow lights hovers in front of the door, and this may be my only chance tonight. I flick the metal latch up and step forward, flipping my head to the left and then the right, the wind gusting, grasses sighing, and I bend over to pick up the bar. The glowing dots gather before me and I stand upright as they fill the frame of my Isabella, just for a moment, her curves and slender legs, her long hair blowing in the darkness, and then they break apart. I take a step outside.

  The fireflies head back across the grassy field, a line of yellow dots, expanding into slashes, and I follow this lost highway out into the night, a wave of peaceful inevitability washing over me, the hounds coming back around to the front, yapping at me, nipping at my feet, my knees, as they bound in and out of the grasses. I swing the bar lazily towards them, and they retreat. Moments later they are back at my side, escorting me through the lapping blades. I fling the bar out into the grass and it lands with a dull thud, the animals descending on it, confused. They sniff at the metal, something off, standing still now, and they let me continue, rotting flesh that I am—they let me go.

  When the blinking lights drift out over the water and up into the sky, I follow them. She whispers in my ear, her mouth on my neck, and the tears come, the dancing lights pulling me over. Her laughter is with me and I take it, I hold it, and let it cushion me as I fall to embrace the rocks below.

  Chrysalis

  John Redman stood in his living room, the soft glow of the embers in the fireplace casting his shadow against the wall, and wondered how much he could get if he returned all of the gifts that were under the Christmas tree—everything—including what was in the stockings. The wind picked up outside the old farmhouse, rattling a loose piece of wood trim, the windows shaking, a cool drift of air settling on his skin. Couple hundred bucks maybe, four hundred tops. But it might be enough. That paired with their savings, everything that his wife Laura and he had in the bank—the paltry sum of maybe six hundred dollars. It had to be done. Every ache in his bones, every day that passed—a little more panic settled down onto shoulders, the weight soon becoming unbearable. Upstairs the kids were asleep, Jed and Missy quiet in their beds, home from school for their winter break, filling up the house with their warm laughter and vigilante footsteps. Everything that went back, the long drive to the city, miles and miles of desolate farmland his only escort, it pained him to consider it at all. Video games and dolls, new jeans and sweaters, and a singular diamond on a locket hung from a long strand of silver. All of it was going back.

  It had started a couple weeks ago with, of all things, a large orange and black wooly bear caterpillar. He stood on the back porch sneaking a cigarette, his wife and kids in town, grocery shopping and running errands all day. The fuzzy beast crawled across the porch rail and stopped right next to John—making sure it was seen. John looked at the caterpillar and noticed it was almost completely black, with just a tiny band of orange. Something in that information rang a bell, shot up a red flag in the back of his crowded mind. He usually didn’t pay attention to these kinds of things—give them any weight. Sure, he picked up his Farmer’s Almanac every year, partly out of habit, and partly because it all made him laugh. Owning the farm as they did now, seven years or so, taking over for his mother when she passed away, the children still infants, unable to complain, John had gotten a lot of advice. Every time he stepped into Clancy’s Dry Goods in town, picking up his contraband cigarettes, or a six-pack of Snickers bars that he hid in the glove box of his faded red pickup truck, the advice spilled out of his elders’ mouths like the dribble that used to run down his children’s chins. Clancy himself told John to make sure he picked up the almanac, to get his woodpile in order, to put up plastic over the windows, in preparation for winter. For some reason, John listened to the barrel-chested man, his moustache and goatee giving him an air of sophistication that was offset by Clancy’s fondness for flannel. John nodded his head when the Caterpillar and John Deere hats jawed on and on by the coffeepot, stomping their boots to shake off the cold, rubbing their hands over three-day old stubble. John nodded his head and went out the door, usually snickering to himself.

  Christmas was coming and the three-bedroom farmhouse was filled with the smell of oranges and cloves, hot apple cider, and a large brick fireplace that was constantly burning, night and day. Laura taught English at the high school, and she was off work as well. Most of the month of December and a little bit of the new year would unfurl to fill their home with crayons, fres
h baked bread, and Matchbox cars laid out in rows and sorted by color.

  John was an accountant, a CPA. He’d taken over his father’s business, Comprehensive Accounting, a few years before they’d finally made the move to the farm. The client list was set, most every small business in the area, and few of the bigger ones as well. They trusted John with their business; the only history that mattered to them were the new ones he created with their books. Every year he balanced the accounts, hiding numbers over here, padding expenses over there, working his magic, his illusion. But Laura knew John better, back before the children were born, back when their evenings were filled with broken glasses and lipstick stains and money gambled away on lies and risky ventures. Things were good now—John was on a short leash, nowhere to go, miles from everyone—trouble pushed away and sent on down the road.

  John made a mental note of the caterpillar, to look it up later in the almanac. Right now he had wood to chop, stocking up for the oncoming season. He tugged on his soft, leather gloves, stained with sap and soil, faded and fraying at the edges. Surrounding the farmhouse was a ring of trees, oak and maple and evergreen pine. For miles in every direction there were fields of amber—corn on one side, soybeans on the other. John picked up the axe that leaned against the back porch with his left hand, and then grabbed the chainsaw with his right—eyeballing the caterpillar, which hadn’t moved an inch, as he walked forward exhaling white puffs of air. One day the fields were a comfort, the fact that they leased them out to local farmers, no longer actual farmers themselves, a box checked in the appropriate column, incoming funds—an asset. The next day they closed in on him, their watchful stare a constant presence, a reminder of something he was not—reliable.

  John set the axe and chainsaw next to a massive oak and looked around the ring of trees. There were small branches scattered under the trees—he picked these up in armloads and took them back to the house, filling a large box with the bits of wood. This would be the kindling. Then he went back to look for downed trees—smaller ones mostly, their roots unable to stand up to the winds that whipped across the open plains and bent the larger trees back and forth. A fog pushed in across the open land, thick and heavy, blanketing the ring of trees, filling in all the gaps. The ground was covered in acorns, a blanket of caps and nuts, nowhere to step that didn’t end in pops and cracks, his boot rolling across the tiny orbs.