Read Online A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre: Halloween Is Going to Be Jealous by ed. Shane McKenzie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: ed. Shane McKenzie
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all had one thing in common—there were none left alive. She had exacted revenge for each monster that had been planted in her belly, and for the only one that she had cared about.
And so, according to the legend, that was how it began.
On Easter morning she came, The Easter Bunny, stalking through the gardens of the town. In some she left her mucus-coated gifts to the inhabitants, others she passed right through.
When Christine was a kid she remembered warnings from her mother not to look out the window on that night before Easter, and never, under any circumstances, to go outside before her father said it was okay. She remembered vividly the burning rituals in the back yard.
Her mother told her once of a time when she herself was a child, when she dared to look out the window. She screamed so loud her ears rang and Christine’s grandmother had covered her eyes, comforting her and chastising her in equal measure.
“You don’t want to see that, Christine,” she had said.
Now her mother was gone. She had died old and gray and peaceful in her sleep on a blustery day the previous autumn. Christine had a child of her own. A two year old with bouncing blonde curls that she refused to trim.
Her father lived with them, supported by a walking stick those days. Countless times Christine had tried to move from Murrins, but life had always gotten in the way and thwarted her plans. Now her father did not want to leave her mother and she, Christine, must look. For the sake of her son and all the unborn children she and her husband wanted to create, she got up with her boy at dawn and stood at the window on Easter morning, to see if the legends were just horror stories, or history.
CHRISTINE DRAGGED HERSELF TO her feet, her legs shaking. Her gut contracted and her whole body screamed at her to run away, but her traitorous hands once again reached out and lifted the curtain. Her heart beat like a drum when she saw that she was still there and it had not been her imagination, her tired eyes conjuring falsities.
She stood on the lawn, looking down at the grass. She was naked, scraggy black hair sprouting in patches from her wrinkled skin. Her hideous, saggy breasts dangled like excess flaps of skin against her stomach. As Christine watched, she squatted low over the ground. The window was open a crack and the smell of her wafted across the garden on the breeze; the smell of blood and filth and sex.
From the dense black bush at her pubis something began to emerge. A gelatinous goo slipped from between her legs and hung there like a string of clear snot. She shifted on her feet and an oval, membranous thing fell to the ground with a wet plop. Blood and amniotic fluid splattered with its exit.
It lay there, pulsing between her feet. Something moved beneath the transparent shell; something pink and green and monstrous.
She moved over a few paces and squatted again. Christine could see her tense up as she forced out another seed.
And as if her eyes weren’t abominated enough, they took in something worse.
A thousand ‘what-ifs’ lashed at her in a successive assault: What if they had thrown out the rancid meat they found in the fridge the night before instead of feeding it to the dog? Then it wouldn’t have started to squirt its reeking diarrhoea all over the floor and have to be put outside for the night. What if Carl had pushed him out the back door instead of the front? What if he had not gone to bed so early and hence been so befuddled that he had not latched the door after him? What if Christine had been watching her son instead of the gorgon on the lawn with her slimy discharge?
All those little links created a chain of events that led her to the point where she was now watching them both.
Christine was frozen in fear as she watched her little boy wander into the garden, his blonde curls bouncing as he walked. The two outside were unaware of each other.
She willed the hag not to turn around; she tried to catch her
And so, according to the legend, that was how it began.
On Easter morning she came, The Easter Bunny, stalking through the gardens of the town. In some she left her mucus-coated gifts to the inhabitants, others she passed right through.
When Christine was a kid she remembered warnings from her mother not to look out the window on that night before Easter, and never, under any circumstances, to go outside before her father said it was okay. She remembered vividly the burning rituals in the back yard.
Her mother told her once of a time when she herself was a child, when she dared to look out the window. She screamed so loud her ears rang and Christine’s grandmother had covered her eyes, comforting her and chastising her in equal measure.
“You don’t want to see that, Christine,” she had said.
Now her mother was gone. She had died old and gray and peaceful in her sleep on a blustery day the previous autumn. Christine had a child of her own. A two year old with bouncing blonde curls that she refused to trim.
Her father lived with them, supported by a walking stick those days. Countless times Christine had tried to move from Murrins, but life had always gotten in the way and thwarted her plans. Now her father did not want to leave her mother and she, Christine, must look. For the sake of her son and all the unborn children she and her husband wanted to create, she got up with her boy at dawn and stood at the window on Easter morning, to see if the legends were just horror stories, or history.
CHRISTINE DRAGGED HERSELF TO her feet, her legs shaking. Her gut contracted and her whole body screamed at her to run away, but her traitorous hands once again reached out and lifted the curtain. Her heart beat like a drum when she saw that she was still there and it had not been her imagination, her tired eyes conjuring falsities.
She stood on the lawn, looking down at the grass. She was naked, scraggy black hair sprouting in patches from her wrinkled skin. Her hideous, saggy breasts dangled like excess flaps of skin against her stomach. As Christine watched, she squatted low over the ground. The window was open a crack and the smell of her wafted across the garden on the breeze; the smell of blood and filth and sex.
From the dense black bush at her pubis something began to emerge. A gelatinous goo slipped from between her legs and hung there like a string of clear snot. She shifted on her feet and an oval, membranous thing fell to the ground with a wet plop. Blood and amniotic fluid splattered with its exit.
It lay there, pulsing between her feet. Something moved beneath the transparent shell; something pink and green and monstrous.
She moved over a few paces and squatted again. Christine could see her tense up as she forced out another seed.
And as if her eyes weren’t abominated enough, they took in something worse.
A thousand ‘what-ifs’ lashed at her in a successive assault: What if they had thrown out the rancid meat they found in the fridge the night before instead of feeding it to the dog? Then it wouldn’t have started to squirt its reeking diarrhoea all over the floor and have to be put outside for the night. What if Carl had pushed him out the back door instead of the front? What if he had not gone to bed so early and hence been so befuddled that he had not latched the door after him? What if Christine had been watching her son instead of the gorgon on the lawn with her slimy discharge?
All those little links created a chain of events that led her to the point where she was now watching them both.
Christine was frozen in fear as she watched her little boy wander into the garden, his blonde curls bouncing as he walked. The two outside were unaware of each other.
She willed the hag not to turn around; she tried to catch her
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