Read Online Horror Stories: A Macabre Collection by Steve Wands - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Wands
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me.
I heard her following me but I hoped she’d
leave after a bit, but of course she didn’t. I wasn’t that lucky.
She was damn near feral, completely animalistic and why we saved
her I still don’t know. She was part of a “fuck hut” we came across
months ago down by Jamesburg off the old highway. The girl was
barely into double digits by the looks of her. She was filthy and
had no idea how to interact with others, not that any of us really
did, but she made it extremely uncomfortable. Who knows how many
times she’d been raped—it was all she knew. She looked at you as if
you were going to, and was confused when you did nothing. At times
it was almost as if she wanted to be fucked, as if that were the
only way she could have contact with another person. If I had a
heart it would break, but it didn’t. Her movement and posture
resembled an ape more than it did of man. I turned to look at her
as she hid behind a pile of rubble. She grunted at me and I shooed
her away. She scampered off, heading back to the group. Good
riddance.
I walked for a few minutes, heading toward
the road which eventually took me to the bridge. Both of which were
cluttered with broken down vehicles, many of which were weathered
and rusted. Come tomorrow, getting across would be interesting. I
wondered if we even could. Something stirred on the bridge. I heard
a noise, and stared right in its direction. From the shadows
emerged one of the dead. Its eyes gone long ago, its skin wrapped
like tight leather around its bones. It looked like a mummy
whittled out of wood. I stepped closer to it, my club at my side.
It met me part of the way. I stood staring at it, staring into its
eyeless holes looking for something to hate. It came at me, stiffly
and weakly. I let it grab hold only to push it away. I let it do it
again, and again. How the hell did these things turn the world into
a nightmare? The thought gave me rage and I used it to swing my
club at the deader. I knocked it to the ground, its leathered hide
scraping on the pavement. I put my foot to its head and slowly
pressed down, it gave no fight and if it did I didn’t notice. I
stomped full-force on the deader's head, heard a very satisfying
crunch and looked at the dark ooze coming from its ears. It looked
like oil. I raised my foot to stomp it once again, and once again I
was satisfied with the noise I made—it was music, and violence was
the instrument. I was so focused on what I was doing that I didn’t
notice the other creatures that crept out from the shadows of the
bridge. Three more, and they were just as slow as the dead bastard
who finally found rest under my foot. One of them had been
disemboweled long ago, staggering forward with an empty hole where
her stomach should’ve been. I could see the upper crest of her
pelvis and the base of her spine. The rest was covered by skin that
hung in clumps like rows of jerky. None of them had clothes, one
barely had any hair, not that it mattered what they looked like.
Nothing mattered, really. I hoped they would kill me but I knew
they wouldn’t be able to. Even against three of them it was easy
work. I had my fun of course then quickly put them down.
I was beginning to sober up and that was a
bad thing, a very bad thing.
It was on my second jar of moonshine that I
returned to near oblivion. I was almost drunk enough to enjoy the
stories being told within earshot of where I stood on wobbly legs.
I heard one part of a story that involved Mick Jagger and it only
made me think of my dead friends on the bridge. It almost made me
chuckle—the thought of Mick and The Stones being responsible for
the death of death. I smiled, briefly, and it felt unnatural and
dirty on my face. I wiped it off and took a swig from my jar.
The river moved fast and rough. It looked
almost green. I could see a few people from the group down near the
river talking amongst themselves—it could’ve been an argument the
way they were moving, but I stopped paying
I heard her following me but I hoped she’d
leave after a bit, but of course she didn’t. I wasn’t that lucky.
She was damn near feral, completely animalistic and why we saved
her I still don’t know. She was part of a “fuck hut” we came across
months ago down by Jamesburg off the old highway. The girl was
barely into double digits by the looks of her. She was filthy and
had no idea how to interact with others, not that any of us really
did, but she made it extremely uncomfortable. Who knows how many
times she’d been raped—it was all she knew. She looked at you as if
you were going to, and was confused when you did nothing. At times
it was almost as if she wanted to be fucked, as if that were the
only way she could have contact with another person. If I had a
heart it would break, but it didn’t. Her movement and posture
resembled an ape more than it did of man. I turned to look at her
as she hid behind a pile of rubble. She grunted at me and I shooed
her away. She scampered off, heading back to the group. Good
riddance.
I walked for a few minutes, heading toward
the road which eventually took me to the bridge. Both of which were
cluttered with broken down vehicles, many of which were weathered
and rusted. Come tomorrow, getting across would be interesting. I
wondered if we even could. Something stirred on the bridge. I heard
a noise, and stared right in its direction. From the shadows
emerged one of the dead. Its eyes gone long ago, its skin wrapped
like tight leather around its bones. It looked like a mummy
whittled out of wood. I stepped closer to it, my club at my side.
It met me part of the way. I stood staring at it, staring into its
eyeless holes looking for something to hate. It came at me, stiffly
and weakly. I let it grab hold only to push it away. I let it do it
again, and again. How the hell did these things turn the world into
a nightmare? The thought gave me rage and I used it to swing my
club at the deader. I knocked it to the ground, its leathered hide
scraping on the pavement. I put my foot to its head and slowly
pressed down, it gave no fight and if it did I didn’t notice. I
stomped full-force on the deader's head, heard a very satisfying
crunch and looked at the dark ooze coming from its ears. It looked
like oil. I raised my foot to stomp it once again, and once again I
was satisfied with the noise I made—it was music, and violence was
the instrument. I was so focused on what I was doing that I didn’t
notice the other creatures that crept out from the shadows of the
bridge. Three more, and they were just as slow as the dead bastard
who finally found rest under my foot. One of them had been
disemboweled long ago, staggering forward with an empty hole where
her stomach should’ve been. I could see the upper crest of her
pelvis and the base of her spine. The rest was covered by skin that
hung in clumps like rows of jerky. None of them had clothes, one
barely had any hair, not that it mattered what they looked like.
Nothing mattered, really. I hoped they would kill me but I knew
they wouldn’t be able to. Even against three of them it was easy
work. I had my fun of course then quickly put them down.
I was beginning to sober up and that was a
bad thing, a very bad thing.
It was on my second jar of moonshine that I
returned to near oblivion. I was almost drunk enough to enjoy the
stories being told within earshot of where I stood on wobbly legs.
I heard one part of a story that involved Mick Jagger and it only
made me think of my dead friends on the bridge. It almost made me
chuckle—the thought of Mick and The Stones being responsible for
the death of death. I smiled, briefly, and it felt unnatural and
dirty on my face. I wiped it off and took a swig from my jar.
The river moved fast and rough. It looked
almost green. I could see a few people from the group down near the
river talking amongst themselves—it could’ve been an argument the
way they were moving, but I stopped paying
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