Read Online Horror Stories: A Macabre Collection by Steve Wands - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Wands
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attention, and moved
closer to the fire. The fire smelled terrible, like hot piss on
burnt rubber, but I took it in all the same.
A memory came to me then, one of fire—a fire
that didn’t smell of piss and rubber. It was a Thanksgiving years
ago, our first Thanksgiving as a new family, just the three of us.
I fought and fought for us to be by ourselves. I was sick of
sharing the day with her family, and for once I wanted to just be
by ourselves. The fire then smelled great and it heated most of the
house. Our son was crawling around like a maniac and we kept
chasing after him—but I must say I had a hard time crawling after
him. I was heavier then, and my knees hated me for it. It was the
best Thanksgiving I had as an adult. I wish I could go back to that
day, back to a day on the couch with a giant heap of mashed
potatoes, a cold beer, a beautiful woman at my side and my curious
little creation roaming the floors in search of brightly colored
toys to put in his mouth.
It’s funny the things you think of when
you’re trying to get some shut-eye. And when I say funny, I mean
odd. I was just thinking about the rain forest. I pictured it
beginning to flourish once again. I saw vivid colors and giant
trees, crazy looking little bugs, and noisy birds. The earth, the
real earth, must be rejoicing as we continue to struggle for
survival. I thought of the future I use to picture, flying cars and
teleportation systems, robots named “Rosie” and all that good
stuff. It’s crazy how quickly things can change. How one can go
from a bright future to no future at all. I thought of dinosaurs,
and then I felt like one. Somehow I slept.
I dreamt of walking through the city, the
bridge was cleared and we joined a parade. People were celebrating
again, the sun was shining, and people were talking and laughing. A
man tried to sell me ice cream but I didn’t have any money. He
smiled and handed it to me anyway. Then he gave me a wink. I could
hear children laughing but I didn’t see any. Then it began to rain,
no it poured. It was muddy and hot, and everyone ran off. I was
left in the middle of the street with my ice cream, which turned
into eyeballs. The people around me all turned into deaders. They
began clapping. My vision blurred and the world began to spin out
of control. Then I woke to the touch of someone stroking my leg. It
was the feral girl. I jumped up and pushed her away. She hissed at
me, I kicked her and snarled back. The others looked at me, then to
the girl, and then they went back to whatever the hell it was they
were doing—which was really just killing time.
I sat back down, and the last thing I
remember was the shifting of gravel underfoot. Then blackness. When
I woke up my head pounded, and the world was upside down. The folks
I traveled with were standing around me. They looked anxious, and
they were looking at me. I hung suspended by my feet, and my hands
were tied in back. All I could do was squirm—and not very much at
that. They were all pretty quiet. From behind me I could hear the
sharpening of metal—I knew what was coming. I smiled when I figured
it out; it was my turn, at long fucking last. There was a bucket
under my head. The sharpening stopped and then all was quiet. I
could hear footsteps approaching from behind, then the swift sound
of a cleaver slicing through the cold night air. The pussy swinging
the cleaver didn’t have enough strength to cleave off my head in
one swing. So, you could imagine the pain when it struck my throat.
As much as I looked forward to this moment, I had no idea how much
pain it would actually be. Nor did I think it would hurt a hundred
times more when the bastard pulled it out to try again. Finally on
the third stroke my head landed in the bucket, face down and
bleeding stump up. My warm blood flowed from the wound, quickly
cooling off—and there was a lot of it. I then watched them slice
open my gut and disembowel me. Cleaving out every organ and letting
them
closer to the fire. The fire smelled terrible, like hot piss on
burnt rubber, but I took it in all the same.
A memory came to me then, one of fire—a fire
that didn’t smell of piss and rubber. It was a Thanksgiving years
ago, our first Thanksgiving as a new family, just the three of us.
I fought and fought for us to be by ourselves. I was sick of
sharing the day with her family, and for once I wanted to just be
by ourselves. The fire then smelled great and it heated most of the
house. Our son was crawling around like a maniac and we kept
chasing after him—but I must say I had a hard time crawling after
him. I was heavier then, and my knees hated me for it. It was the
best Thanksgiving I had as an adult. I wish I could go back to that
day, back to a day on the couch with a giant heap of mashed
potatoes, a cold beer, a beautiful woman at my side and my curious
little creation roaming the floors in search of brightly colored
toys to put in his mouth.
It’s funny the things you think of when
you’re trying to get some shut-eye. And when I say funny, I mean
odd. I was just thinking about the rain forest. I pictured it
beginning to flourish once again. I saw vivid colors and giant
trees, crazy looking little bugs, and noisy birds. The earth, the
real earth, must be rejoicing as we continue to struggle for
survival. I thought of the future I use to picture, flying cars and
teleportation systems, robots named “Rosie” and all that good
stuff. It’s crazy how quickly things can change. How one can go
from a bright future to no future at all. I thought of dinosaurs,
and then I felt like one. Somehow I slept.
I dreamt of walking through the city, the
bridge was cleared and we joined a parade. People were celebrating
again, the sun was shining, and people were talking and laughing. A
man tried to sell me ice cream but I didn’t have any money. He
smiled and handed it to me anyway. Then he gave me a wink. I could
hear children laughing but I didn’t see any. Then it began to rain,
no it poured. It was muddy and hot, and everyone ran off. I was
left in the middle of the street with my ice cream, which turned
into eyeballs. The people around me all turned into deaders. They
began clapping. My vision blurred and the world began to spin out
of control. Then I woke to the touch of someone stroking my leg. It
was the feral girl. I jumped up and pushed her away. She hissed at
me, I kicked her and snarled back. The others looked at me, then to
the girl, and then they went back to whatever the hell it was they
were doing—which was really just killing time.
I sat back down, and the last thing I
remember was the shifting of gravel underfoot. Then blackness. When
I woke up my head pounded, and the world was upside down. The folks
I traveled with were standing around me. They looked anxious, and
they were looking at me. I hung suspended by my feet, and my hands
were tied in back. All I could do was squirm—and not very much at
that. They were all pretty quiet. From behind me I could hear the
sharpening of metal—I knew what was coming. I smiled when I figured
it out; it was my turn, at long fucking last. There was a bucket
under my head. The sharpening stopped and then all was quiet. I
could hear footsteps approaching from behind, then the swift sound
of a cleaver slicing through the cold night air. The pussy swinging
the cleaver didn’t have enough strength to cleave off my head in
one swing. So, you could imagine the pain when it struck my throat.
As much as I looked forward to this moment, I had no idea how much
pain it would actually be. Nor did I think it would hurt a hundred
times more when the bastard pulled it out to try again. Finally on
the third stroke my head landed in the bucket, face down and
bleeding stump up. My warm blood flowed from the wound, quickly
cooling off—and there was a lot of it. I then watched them slice
open my gut and disembowel me. Cleaving out every organ and letting
them
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