The Invisible Mummy


Part I: The Shit Detail

Max was a private—not first class—he was as low as it gets. He had pulled latrine duty several weeks in a row—the shit-end of the stick, so to speak, and he had it so often, soldiers in our battalion thought it was his job. Max was getting suspicious that the men in our company were tricking him, but he couldn’t figure-out how. He kept pulling latrine duty—the shortest stick. Max told me his story, and now I’m telling you. Usually, the shit is mixed with diesel oil and burned. Max got that detail—and several others. He was a detail man. The officers didn’t do their business in the plywood outhouses. They built one of concrete with porcelain toilets. Much was accomplished there. We were in the desert, so there was no actual plumbing. Somebody dug a hole with a loader, and when it was full, it got covered-up, just like how a dog does it. If anybody walked on-top of that spot, there was the possibility of quick-sand—so it got marked off, until it dried. That didn’t take long, because it was at least 120 degrees in the shade. This was during Operation Iraqi Freedom, and a good part of that situation was sitting on the toilet. Most soldiers read the newspaper or a dirty magazine—they were really dirty after a month, and then, the next issue—government issue. We loved our commanding officers. Max was Mexican, so the stereotype fit. I was white, so my privilege was to check-in on his mental status, and the rest of our troops. “How many times do you play with yourself a day?” “Three times.” “Good.” When somebody was abstaining, I started to worry, unless they belonged to one of the Abrahamic religions. Give a guy a loaded gun and tell him not to kill the enemy—and it’s going to go off at the wrong time. Well…everybody knew our officers in charge were full of shit, and most of us worried that we would have to be the one to clean it up. Max drew the short-end again, so he walked into the bowels of our septic system. It was built just like a swimming pool, except, you didn’t want to fall in. We dynamited, to cover the hole, but we couldn’t use a traditional fuse—methane gas, you see. Max told me he placed three evenly-spaced charges and next to the fourth, he spotted an anti-chamber. He broke through the crusty sand and discovered a stone coffin. He broke into that with his tactical tomahawk and found a mummy. Max wasn’t the brightest, but he thought twice before destroying an archeological find. The mummy wrap, looked just like toilet paper—two ply. His curiosity got the better of him and he unwrapped a couple pieces. What he found, was nothing. There wasn’t even a body. Not a skeleton, with skin as tight as a drum. It didn’t make sense. What was the mold underneath? Was it similar to paper mâché, where the wrap dries around empty air? He pocketed a few pieces and went back to the surface, to see what it looked like in the sun. But when he pulled the paper from his pockets, he couldn’t see it or his hands. They looked as if they were amputated at the wrists. Needless to say, I got a hysterical phone call. He was one of those guys, not of an Abrahamic religion—a lapsed Catholic, I think, and he was abstaining, so I was worried. The last thing I wanted, was a soldier under my psych evaluation—killing half-a-dozen troops on my watch, or masturbating in public.

Part II: Doc—I don’t have any hands!

“Doc—I don’t have any hands! Well, that’s not quite right—I can feel them, but I can’t see them.” “What have you been doing with your hands?” “Nothing—I swear, Doc!” “Are you sure?” “Well—I got latrine duty, again, and when I went into the officer’s crapper, I discovered a mummy.” “A mummy?” “Yeah. It was wrapped in what looked to be toilet paper.” “I see. Did you discover a body?” “No.” “Well, if there wasn’t a body, it can’t be a mummy. This happens after severe indigestion. A big wad of toilet paper collects in a hole, due to over-wiping. Some of our officers want to pretend their shit doesn’t stink, so they wipe extra clean. Come to my office in one hour.” “Okay, Doc.” “And Max…” “Yes…?” “Wash your hands.” I got a knock on my door. Max barged in. “Doc—I can see my hands!” “Okay. When did that happen?” “When I washed them.” I was trying to understand Max’s defense mechanism. Did he do something dirty, and when he was done, the cleansing water washed away his sin? “You are obviously suffering from a psycho-somatic illness due to your repressed sexual desires that you have acted upon, and then tried to cover up.” “Doc, no disrespect, but I don’t think that’s it at all.” “Oh… What do you think it is, then?” I gave him my all-knowing look of condescending superiority. “It has something to do with this toilet paper I took-off the invisible mummy. See.” He pulled the dressings from his pocket. I could see that it wasn’t Scott’s or Charmin. His hands vanished. “There must be a chemical on those dressings that makes your hands invisible. Here, let’s have you wash.” He used my sink and his hands became visible again. “Fascinating,” I said.

Part III: Show Me the Mummy!

“Can you show me the mummy?” “I can show you the wrappings,” Max said. When we walked past the officer’s mess, it was spaghetti Thursday. “Let’s do this, quickly. Do you have the latrine taped-off?” “Sure.” “Who is the nincompoop who blocked my stall?” General Wheeler demanded. He was wearing an all-green uniform that was too tight around his ass. “Is there a side entrance?” I asked. “What did you think—we don’t go down the toilet.” “I’m not an expert in these matters—the mind is my sewer.” “There’s a manhole.” “Funny—feminists haven’t insisted on calling them people holes, just yet. They want the corporate positions and not the shit jobs.” “You got that right,” Max said. We walked into the stink and I held my breath, until I couldn’t any longer. “It’s in my mouth.” “Just think about something else. I envision green fields full of cows. There’s the anti-chamber, but wait! Those wrappings are displayed differently!” Then Max pointed to the shitty brown floor. “Footprints!” He gasped. They walked towards me. Then, something or somebody, knocked me down, and I knew three showers wouldn’t be enough to get me clean. “We can’t let that thing mingle in the military. An invisible man, or whatever it is, can go anywhere!” It was walking up the concrete steps, to the desert sand above. Max followed it, but when he stuck his head through the manhole, he got kicked in the face, and came crashing down. Luckily, he had a soft landing. “Man—getting covered in poop, is positively medieval.” “You got that right—what do we do now?” “You’re the psychiatrist.” “Well—you’re not crazy, Max. We have to warn our commanding officer.”

Part IV: Our Commanding Officer

When I got to the surface, I was careful not to stick my head out of the hole. I didn’t see a body, but it was an invisible mummy, so go figure. I saw tracks, walking to the mess hall. Was it hungry? Somebody needed to do something. General Wheeler was our man. He was tired of bombing Iraqis into oblivion—and he wanted a real enemy, like the Nazis or the Soviets, but he was born too late. I ran to his quarters and knocked on the door. “Come in.” “Sir, we have a mummy on the lose.” “A mummy, you say? This isn’t Egypt.” “I know that sir, but just the same—my patient discovered it while cleaning out the officer’s latrine.” “And you don’t think this is some delusion, brought-on by pulling a shit detail?” “No, sir. I’ve seen the mummy with my own eyes.” “I thought you said it was invisible?” “That’s true, sir. I mean, I’ve seen evidence of the mummy—it’s wrappings and footprints. The dressings make a man invisible. Show him Max.” The private was lurking in the shadows. When he stepped forward, he showed General Wheeler his missing hands. “Good God, son. Why did they let you into the military? What can you do without hands?” “But that’s just it, General. I have hands. See?” Max washed in the sink and showed us. “Do you know the military implications of this? An invisible army,” General Wheeler said with a dreamy-far-off look on his face. “If this technology gets into the wrong hands, we won’t be able to see them. Now, where is this mummy?” “That’s just it, sir. We don’t know where it went.” “You don’t know where it went? You incompetent nincompoops!” “Well, it was headed to the mess hall.” “Quick. Bring a bucket of water and my personal flamethrower. I don’t care what they say—fire is more effective than a side-arm or a shotgun.” I grabbed the backpack and we went to get some spaghetti and meatballs. The footprints led right up to the door.

Part V: The Invisible Army from Hell

The mummy dipped its hands into the spaghetti sauce, so they looked as if they were covered in blood. Green Berets were losing their shit, left and right, “It tried to strangle me!” A soldier said. Nonsense, I thought. If you’ve been dead for 6,000 years and come back to life in a shit hole, where do you go? To get washed off. I guess it got hungry on the way to the showers… I threw my bucket of water on the mummy, and it became visible. I immediately understood why it wanted to be invisible—it was ugly. General Wheeler pulled his side-arm and fired three shots into its chest. The mummy looked at him. “He doesn’t mean it,” I said. “Let’s just get you washed off.” The mummy didn’t speak English, but it understood. After the showers, it ate spaghetti and regenerated. General Wheeler gave the wrappings to our chemist, who successfully reproduced the chemical in the lab. North Korea, China and Russia want to go to war with the United States because they think we have drastically reduced our military personnel. We just have the invisible army from hell. The End


Expressive Wolf


Part I: Recessive Wolf

Harold was a bachelor. Some men are out, chasing tail, but he had long-since given up on that. He was content to make money in the stock market and play with his own socio-economic theories. Occasionally, the university wanted him to give a seminar, but he turned them down to play golf, if it was a sunny day. It was always sunny. His handicap was a 1. He cared too much about being a prophet to improve his golf game below a 1. It wasn’t that he promoted his predictions to news channels—it was that he enjoyed personal triumphs when he was right. It’s that feeling when you are drinking a glass of brandy and smoking a cigar while watching the races, and your horse comes in. It feels like you have the golden touch. The economy was no different than gambling at the track. The government pumped horses full of steroids, wouldn’t let jockeys compete, and told patrons that gambling was an addiction, but everybody still went to the track. Idiots got into the stock market because somebody told them they should, and they always bought the popular stock, rather than thinking differently. In the early 90s, when lead was poisoning people and getting into the water supply, they dumped their stocks, but Harold held to his philosophy: go in the opposite direction of everybody, and he put his money into lead. It paid-off. Most recently, Harold was getting into coal, while the morons thought electricity was the future. People didn’t have a grasp on reality. They were full of ideals and screaming for justice, while having no concept of society. Harold didn’t take a side. He made money from both sides, like an arms dealer, supplying guns to either army because he wanted them both to lose. But this story isn’t about that. It’s much older than Harold—ancient, in fact. It concerns bloodlines and destiny. It has been said that the most important part of a man’s life is that he should understand what he is meant to do and do it. Harold’s family had given up on him. His parents were old and in assisted living. His sister was living her life with a good man. Harold had nobody—and he preferred it that way, but if there was one thing that bothered him, it was that he had acquired wealth, but it only amounted to numbers in his bank account. There were things he enjoyed—like literature, collecting rare books, playing the piano, and spending time in his own mind, but he couldn’t share that with anyone. Harold was getting cramps at night, once a month. It was like being a woman. He didn’t know why. Maybe this happens to a guy in his 40s, he wondered. He kept getting it checked-out by his doctor. She was sexy. Harold liked a woman with class. She wore pearls on top of her fashionable clothes. “Nope—you’re a strong virile male—no hormone imbalances that I can see,” she said while checking his charts. “Your blood is rare, though—so you’ll want to avoid any need for a transfusion. Can I put you down as a doner?” “Why not,” Harold said. He wondered if there was a guy in a gangland neighborhood who would get shot and his blood would save the man’s life. Strange, to have his blood flowing in another man’s veins. One of Harold’s hobbies was to read the classics in his living room. His grandfather stared at him from a painting above the fireplace. His eyes were black—not quite human—animalistic, in fact. Harold liked his grandfather. He only met him a handful of times, when he wasn’t in captivity. He had an office, where he showed Harold about heredity and genetics and how genes can be recessive or expressive. “You and I have more in common with each other than anybody in our family,” he told Harold. There was a back room in the office where Harold was never allowed to go. One day, his grandmother was viciously murdered by his grandfather—slashed to pieces, by a primitive weapon. Harold considered what his grandfather said—that they were just like each other. When Harold was old enough, he confronted his grandfather in prison. “Did you murder your wife?” He asked “It’s not that simple,” his grandfather said.

Part II: Grandpa’s Sexual Stories

“How can that be?” “When I was a late teenager—say, 19, I think—I was bitten by a woman, a very sexy woman.” “Grandpa—this isn’t going to be one of your sexual stories, is it?” “Just listen—she bit me on the neck and left a mark—then she kissed it. Man, I had the hots for her—no woman had ever done that before. It wasn’t until a week later, that I knew I was in trouble. My muscles were cramping and growing, giving me strange strength. In the high school gym, I lifted all the weight on the squat. On our following date, there was more aroused in me, than just the male organ.” “Grandpa.” “Wait—you’re going to want to hear this. That night, it was a full moon, and I asked her to marry me on the dock of silver lake. It gets the name when the moon fits perfectly into the water, like a crystal ball, and your fortune is told there. I started to sprout hair all over my body, and so did she. We became animals, underneath the moonlight, and wrestled in the grass, and…” “Grandpa.” “Okay—I’ll spare you the details. Your mother was conceived that night, and I learned something about myself, that I never knew before. I was a werewolf, but a recessive one, until I met the love of my life. She knew her body was different, earlier than I did. At camp, when she got her first period, she too, had enormous strength. When she played capture the flag, she was twice as fast as the other girls. As the years wore on, and we had a family together, we worried about our children. What if we harmed them when we went wild during that time of the month? I got a vasectomy because we thought birth control was a good idea. It didn’t work. Man, when guys talk about crazy sex, there is nothing like doing it with a werewolf.” “Grandpa.” “The problem with our sex life was that one of us usually wound-up hurt. I would transform first, before she was fully wolf, and I would jump on her and… “Grandpa.” “Sorry. So, we built a chair that she strapped me to. Kind of like BDSM, but for protection. On the day your grandmother was murdered, I didn’t quite make it to the chair, and I killed her. It was the monster in me, but I loved her. What I can’t figure-out is that you haven’t met the one yet. Do you go out at night?” “I prefer reading the classics.” “You know what they say… early to bed and early to rise, makes a man health, wealthy, and can’t get laid.” “Funny, I’ve never heard that before. Say—what’s happening to you in prison? Are you transforming?” “No. The beast is there, but it can’t come out without true love. You won’t know who you really are, until you go for walks with your lover in the full moon. Is there anybody?” “Well… I like my doctor, but I don’t have any animal urges for her—more like a polite interest. Plus, I’m worried about women. I don’t want one to strap me to a chair.” “Yes—you do.” “I stay away from women, grandpa—it’s the safest thing for me to do.” He sighed with a downcast face. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” “Look where a woman got you,” I said. “That’s not fair.” “Our time is up. I love you grandpa, even if you murdered grandma.” The door buzzed, and he was gone.

Part III: Bitten by a Bitch

There was ringing in Harold’s ears— His grandpa died in prison and not from old age. Some black guys tried to jump him in the shower and he ripped-out three of their throats with his teeth, before the fourth jammed a shank into his liver. The strange thing was, it didn’t kill him and his flesh grew back. It took four more of them to hold his body underwater, while giving the shank, until he was a drown dog. That’s what the autopsy report said, “died from drowning.” It neglected, the twenty or so holes that healed before he was suffocated. Harold switched to thinking about online dating… “I tried it five years ago without success,” he mumbled. “Girls get hundreds of messages a day from hungry boys who never leave their basements. It’s not a good way to meet women.” No—he was content to predict what he could control. There are prefect bandits who steal $100 and there are bandits who murder and steal $100. Then there are intelligent speculators who always make money, but never at the expense of others. There are fools who lose money and cause others to lose money. Lastly, there are helpless schmucks. Harold felt like a schmuck in the dating game. A reasonable strategy, didn’t work with 95% of the online women—who stole your time and promised dates that never happened. There was no consequence for them, so they just kept doing it. It’s like the government printing money and giving it away. It hurts everyone, but they claim it’s the humanitarian thing to do. Girls send messages to guys like inflated money that doesn’t mean anything. They do it for humanitarian reasons… It boiled Harold from the inside. No—he was keeping away from all people. That way, his time was never wasted. He watched them, talking about nothing. They went out of their way to talk to him, in public… even when, he left the house saying, “I’m never going to talk to anybody again.” This was a comfort and a challenge for him. Many people are lonely, but they never stop to consider, that if they go out, somebody will talk to them, whether they want it, or not. If you want people to talk to you—you will be disappointed. If you don’t want people to talk to you—you will be disappointed. Disappointment, is the rule. Harold walked up the steps to his house. A blond in a sports bra jogged by. He didn’t even look—okay, maybe he looked, but without any hope. She had on these yoga pants, that revealed more, than if she was running in the nude. She was being pulled by a Huskey-wolf. Harold guessed it was a female. She jogged across the street and went inside. Harold also went inside, but realized, the wall street journal was missing. He still got a newspaper and when he went to the box, it was gone. Then he saw it—in the Husky-wolf’s mouth. “Give it here! Bitch!” Harold yelled. And she dropped it, with a smile on her face. Then she rushed him and bit him on the leg. “Ah! Murder!” He yelled. The girl in the sports bra came out. “Oh—I’m so sorry!” Harold looked at her. Was she the one?” No. Just because a girl is hot, doesn’t make her the one. She has to be interesting too. “Let me put some peroxide on your wound.” “Okay,” Harold said. He knew it was her way to avoid a lawsuit. And it didn’t matter. Harold was feeling better after the bite, than before it, for some reason.

Part IV: Expressive Wolf

“That’s enough—you’ve sterilized the wound.” “What do you do for a living?” She asked. Oh, here we go, Harold thought—the fatal question. “I’m unemployed.” Her nose looked like there was poop under it. “Oh—sorry.” Harold knew women were looking for security, so he never told them he had more money than Croesus. He limped out of her house, with the distinct impression that he had escape a dangerous beast. She was being supported by somebody—probably an ex-husband. When he crossed the street, he began convulsing—not a full-blown seizure, but one that anybody could get at a Justin Bieber concert. “You okay—son?” Came a voice. It was Harold’s next-door neighbor—retired from the assembly line at the Ford plant. He was smoking cigarettes and wearing a cowboy hat. Not a bad guy, if you didn’t mind bad breath. “I’m fine. I just got bit by the neighbor’s dog.” “Oh—you know what we used to do to them in Montana?” “No—” Harold said. “We gave ’em a lead pill with their breakfast.” He pulled out his six-gun. It was a colt peacemaker—he thumbed the wheel. “That’s very practical,” Harold said. “I’m going to go laydown on the couch now.” He walked inside and curled-up on the leather lazy-boy like a dog. Three hours later, after the sun had gone down, he woke up to a shredded couch and a destroyed living room. He had been sleep-walking. The mirror wasn’t broken, though—and he looked inside, and saw the beast within. “Oh—my god. I’m grandpa’s grandson.” Harold looked out the window. There was that bitch from the afternoon. She was bigger now, in all the right places. Harold walked outside, as if, in a trace, underneath the moonlight. His flower garden was a romantic backdrop. He tried to speak to her, but it came out like a whimper. He had been waiting for her, his whole life. Then he jumped on her and rolled around in the grass. Until… “What the holy hell!” BANG. BANG. BANG. It was Harold’s neighbor. The cowboy was being a cowboy, and Harold felt the wounds, but they quickly healed. Harold was being Harold when he tore the cowboy’s limbs from his body, and his girlfriend, feasted on him in the moonlight. The cowboy should’ve used silver bullets, but most people don’t know that, unless they watch movies—and if they do, they’re never prepared. Harold howled at the moon, and his girlfriend did the same. The End

Night of the Vampires

Part I: The Missing Posters and a Dead Cat

The neighborhood was like one of those dark streets, where kids don’t go—a haunted block—a terrible shadow, in the sunlight. The Amazon driver dropped his packages at the corner. They were gone, the next morning, as if, somebody stole them, but nobody saw who did it. The people there, were invisible, like ghosts, that didn’t want to be seen. It was a place filled with sex offenders, x-convicts, and prostitutes who still worked the phone lines, but were too old to turn a trick. They were like leppers, who hid from each other. Their character was written on their faces like bad essays. The neighborhood was a graveyard—unkept, with tilted houses, like crypts. The creatures there, were the living dead. Their souls were waiting to leave, and they kept telling their bodies, “Let me go,” but their bodies were too weak to give permission. It was a horrible spot, a stain—a back alley, where drunkards are afraid to piss, but they do, anyway, because the place deserves to get pissed on. This was the neighborhood where I grew-up, the summer after sixth grade. There wasn’t much to do there, during the heat-wave, but kick aluminum cans around. I was hanging, with the only kids close to my age—their dads were in prison—and mine, left my mother years ago. The strange events of that summer began when I started to spot lost pet signs stapled to telephone poles. One or two missing cats, is normal, but it was like the city pet population vanished overnight—every pole within three blocks was covered with missing pet signs. “Our cats are gone, again” Maddie said. “What do you think happened to them?” I asked. “I don’t know—maybe they got hit by a car.” “Both of them?” “You know what it is…” Brad said. “Some psychopath preparing to kill us all. First, he tortures cats—then…” Brad was looking at Maddie. “Stop trying to scare me,” Maddie said. We were walking down the street, when I spotted a swarm of flies. “Is that a dead body?” Brad asked. “Smells like one.” “Smells different than death—but not far off…” “Smells like science class,” I said. “Fermali…” “Formaldehyde,” Maddie corrected. “That’s what it smells like. Smells like when we dissected cats.” “Don’t tell me somebody is trying to preserve neighborhood pets for a profit, and sell them to high schools around the country.” The cat corpse was nothing but skin, bones, and flies. “What happened to the blood?” Maddie asked. “It’s been drained.” “There’s two puncture holes next to the neck. Do you see it? Just like a snake bite.”

Part II: Mr. Lions has a Flashback

“Hey! What are you kids doing over there!?” Mr. Lions asked. He walked like a man on stilts. He was tall and wiry, so that he looked like a vulture that hadn’t eaten in three weeks. When Mr. Lions looked at us, he was hungry—a landowner who hated kids because they couldn’t pay rent. Aside from collecting, he loved to weed-eat. “Blow it out your ass, old man,” Brad said. “In Korea—I killed a couple kids about your age. They could pick-up a gun, and they did, so I had to—and in my old age, I see things… Doctors calls them flashbacks—I might be in Korea.” “If that’s your idea of a threat, no wonder you lost the War,” Brad said. Mr. Lions looked ready to kill. He went inside. Then he came out with his rifle. “Run!” But my friends were already three steps ahead of me. CRACK. “That son-of-a-bitch fired at us!” “Are you hit?” “No.” “What about you Maddie?” She was lying on the ground with her eyes closed. “I’m okay,” she said. We were in a grove of willow trees—it reminded me of what my mother tried to do last summer. She was going to church and insisted on taking me. The ladies were covering Proverbs—”Spare the rod and…” My mother took their advice, but instead of a stick, she used a willow branch. I figure it hurt twice as bad. I never liked Sunday school very much. “You got a light?” Brad asked. He pulled-out one of those coffin nails and put it between his teeth. “Sorry bro—I quit.” “What? Are you afraid of dying?” “You could say that. What do you think is on the other side?” “Nothing—absolutely nothing.” “What do you think Maddie?” “I don’t think about it. We’re not even in middle school yet.” She looked at me, like I was a boy and she was a mature woman. Girls could be infuriating. The sunlight was going down, and the woods were red, like blood, and I thought about that bloodless corpse we found in the ditch. “We should go home, before it gets dark,” Brad suggested. “Yeah,” Maddie agreed. It wasn’t long, before we found the street again, and passed the haunted house. It was empty, ever since the murder-suicide, three summers ago. Now—a light was on in the living room.

Part III: In the Name of…

 “There’s people in there,” Brad said.

“Are you sure? – they don’t look human.” “Why do you say that?” “The shadows on their skin.” “They’re talking,” Maddie observed. “Just because they talk, doesn’t make them human,” Brad said wisely. “Haven’t you ever been on the subway?” “What do you mean?” “Vampires.” “They aren’t real.” “You want to bet?” “How can you be sure?” I asked. “Do you remember when I dug two graves for Mr. Lions three weeks ago?” “Yeah.” “Well—he paid me two hundred dollars. It was a lot of work, for next to no money, so I got to thinking… What about those graves that have been in this village since the puritans?” “You didn’t,” Maddie said in a hushed voice. “I did. I was looking for treasure. I promised myself, I would rebury the body. I didn’t think I would find anything.” “Well, did you?” Maddie asked. “I found a skeleton lying on piles of gold—so much gold, it took five goes with the wheelbarrow to get the treasure home. I took all night, and finished, just before dawn. The skeleton had a stick in its sternum. I removed it. The stake was what killed him, I think. Anyway, when I went to return my last load, I came back—and the skeleton was missing. I thought Mr. Lions was playing a crazy joke on me, but my gut, told me otherwise. I threw up. I thought about that skeleton—its incisors were two inches long. Shortly, thereafter, people’s pets began to disappear. I didn’t want to say anything, because nobody would believe me, and if they did, I would have to return the gold.” “Where is it now?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” “Brad—the gold might be cursed.” “I never thought of that—okay, okay—it’s in my mother’s Junker.” “Your mother’s, what?” “In her GMC. It seemed like a safe place because there’s no engine in it. It hasn’t been on the road in 15 years.” “And you’re saying that you awakened a Vampire who was—good and dead?” Maddie asked. “Yeah. Dead, but not good.” “Then why are there four of them in there?” “When a vampire bites a human, it makes another.” “Then, why haven’t they bitten more people?” “Because they wizened up. A vampire doesn’t like to eat another vampire. They’re cannibalistic by nature, but they need living blood, to look like the living. They’re rationing themselves—because when they eat each other—they really look like hell—and if too many people become vampires, there’ll be nobody left to drink—and that’s why they’re eating cats.” “What about the fermi…” “Formaldehyde,” Maddie corrected. “The stuff in Science class?” I asked. “I’ve been working on that…” Brad said. “Maybe, they want the town to believe cats and dogs are disappearing in the name of science.”

Part IV: Vampire Eyes

Peeking through the bushes at those corpses, walking around, and not talking to each other, was unnerving. They looked like death, which meant, they were thirsty. It made me wonder about women who wear lots of makeup. Were they dangerous? Then, those red eyes, looked out, into the night, and saw me, which made my heart stop beating. They weren’t laser eyes or drunk bloodshot eyes, but the eyes of hell—a close cousin of the demon, that latches onto you, and takes over your spirit. I was feeling light-headed, like I might pass-out, and then I realized, I was holding my breath. “We should get out of here,” Brad suggested. “I don’t know why we’re still hanging around,” Maddie said. “Because, you and I both know, those vampires are going to kill everyone we love, unless we do something about it.” “Well, what can we do?” Brad asked. “Shove a stake through their hearts.” “All of them?” “All of them,” I said. Brad began to break branches off the tree. I handed my pocketknife to him, and we began to sharpen spears. Maddie just looked at us, like we were nuts. “Those things saw us… Don’t you think we should get out of here?” “We have to finish what I started,” Brad said. “Hey, do you feel something funny?” Maddie asked. “It just got colder—much colder,” I said. “The moon disappeared. Where did it go? It was there.” Brad was pointing at empty space, when a white head bobbed back and forth across the field. It had teeth and a red mouth. “Is that stick ready?” I asked. Brad threw it at the vampire and stuck the thing in the chest. Immediately, its flesh sizzled and drizzled, into the field.

Part V: Nowhere to Run

“There’s going to be more of them…” I said, and then, out of the woods, walked the vampires—more than four of them—dozens. “What do we do?” Brad asked. “There’s nowhere to run.” “The house,” I said. “But it’s occupied.” “Bring your sticks—it’s the only safe place.” Brad knocked… “Vampires don’t have manners—we’d better just enter,” Maddie suggested. When we got inside, a vampire had a tall glass in one hand, and its fangs ready. I gave it the spear, and it died. The next swiped at me with its long fingernails—yellow, they were, as if they belonged to a smoker. She got her claws into me, when Maddie gave her the wooden spear, and the vampiress melted into the carpet, like a microwaved chimichanga. The last one, had its back turned to us. It could’ve been meditating, but I knew it wasn’t, because vampires are the opposite of spiritual. It turned around—all mouth and disgusting breath—jumping onto Brad, and sinking her teeth into his carotid artery, like an alcoholic at a Kegger party. Maddie jammed her stick into the back of its head—and the creature went brain dead—it hissed, like air deflating from a flat tire. Brad turned vampire. I had to kill him. It was the hardest thing to do—murdering my best friend, but his soul would be safe. I jammed my spear into his heart, and he expired. I thought it was the end. The vampires were knocking on the sides of the house, when a searchlight lit-up the field and the voice of Mr. Lions came over the megaphone with a roar. “This is my war, and I’m going to win!”

Part VI: Night of the Vampire

Mr. Lions turned-up the rock-n-roll, pulling a silver six-gun from his holster. The lyrics, “I’m on a highway to hell,” Blared into the silence, like fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. The vampires were dancing to the music like disco, while Lions shot them, as if they were fish in a barrel. The steam from their expiring bodies, was creating a mist in the air, as thick as fog. Suddenly, the lyrics transitioned into, “Breaking the Law…Breaking the Law.” It was impossible to see or hear, anything, and the hands kept slapping the sides of the house. Then flames shot into the field like a dragon. “He’s got a flamethrower,” I said. “Left over from the Korean War?” Maddie asked. “No—I think it’s the one he uses to tar-proof his houses with.” Cackling was heard over the demonic screams. “It takes a meaner monster,” I said. “And Mr. Lions loves to kill.” As if the dragon choked, the flames dissipated, and the slapping stopped. “He must’ve killed them all,” I said. “Then, where is Mr. Lions?” Maddie asked. In response, there was knocking at the door. “Should I open it?” “Vampires don’t knock,” Maddie said. I opened it. Lions stood there, in his full glory. I didn’t know, that men reach their peak, at certain times in their lives, and the downhill journey, forces them to walk away from their glory. Lions had it again, like a stunning confidence, and I understood him, for the first time. “Every last one of those beasts is dead,” he said triumphantly. “Be careful to venture into the mist—you don’t want to breath-in a vampire—it’s worse than smoking—it’ll steal your soul.” “But you’ve been breathing-in the vampire toxin this whole time.” “Sure,” Lions said. “But I’ve been wearing my Korean War gas mask. Strange—I think there might be a hole in it.” At that moment, I noticed his eyes—the windows to his soul, full of hell. “Quick Maddie, hand me the stake!” “What are you doing?” Lions asked. But before he could say another word, I jammed it into his heart, and he keeled over, sinking beneath the soil—a vampire. “Quick—close the door!” Maddie said. “We don’t want to breathe that stuff in.” We waited, until daylight. I thought the dawn would never come—and with the sunrise, the fog burned away. “It’s safe,” I said. “How are we going to explain this?” Maddie asked. “We don’t.” “What about the cursed gold?” “We burry it.” “But it’s gold!” Maddie said. “I know it’s gold, but it will steal your soul.” We walked to Brad’s house and buried him with his treasure. Shortly, thereafter, he went missing, just like the pet posters, and Maddie and I never talked about the vampires, again. I married her, but we left the shame in silence, like buried gold or skeletons in the closet. The End

5 thoughts on “Horror Anthology: 3 Monsters

      1. I would do too at night, if I wasn’t working on improving my health, and that includes going to bed on time. But there is still the day! Reading does make one feel less alone. If only for the characters in the books. You know when reading a book, and it is a good story, and you find yourself wondering on and off throughout the day how the characters are doing? They’re like friends to follow on their journey. It is always so sad when a good story is done. Luckily one can revisit them.


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