Read Online Tales From the Swollen Corpse by Sam Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Sam Williams
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out in pain. The trail tore at William’s back while the creature pulled him at an unnatural speed.
At the hill clearing they stopped, the creature dropped William’s mangled ankle. William put his hand to his face. His face was wet with blood, covered in gashes and flaps of torn skin. Whimpering and unable to rise, William looked up to see the scarecrow standing over him. Its arms to its side and head cocked like a confused dog. It lifted its arms and removed its gloves. The scarecrows hands were made out of twigs but looked skeletal. It slowly lowered itself towards William. Closing his eyes out of pure fear, William quietly began saying a prayer. The prayer was one his mom had taught him for bedtime as a child. William felt a boney grasp as one hand wrapped around his throat. With his eyes tightly shut, he shuddered when the pointed fingertips of the other hand brushed his stomach. William convulsed as the scarecrow’s fingers penetrated his stomach slowly. Then, like a frenzied animal, the scarecrow began disemboweling him.
William’s Grandpa had gotten home later than usual and went straight to bed. In the morning, when he didn’t find William in the guest room, he figured he got an early start. After finding no trace of him at any of the normal jobs, he became worried and jumped into his pickup. He drove all the field service roads but when he got to the end of the south field by the old fence, something caught his eye. Looking up on the hill, it was the old scarecrow. Even though he couldn’t see it very well, he had been looking at it for thirty years. In that time it had always looked one breeze away from dust. This morning however, it seemed as if someone had just put it up there. The scarecrow’s shirt wasn’t flapping in the wind any more. Now it had the appearance of a belly, like it had just been stuffed.
William’s grandpa got in his truck and headed back to the farm house. Inside, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer. He took a seat at a little kitchen table beside the window. Maybe he went hiking or to town , he thought. Sipping his beer, he contemplated how long to wait before calling the boy’s mom. Looking out the window, his thoughts changed for moment. His focus was on the plants and trees. The leaves were starting to change, autumn was coming. The year had gone by too fast and it hadn’t been a good one. He was losing hope for the farm. Largely because of this feeling he had that had grown stronger today. It was a fear that, like the old Wilson place, his soil was going bad.
The Vampire Next Door
When I was a child, I was afraid of the devil. Sometime during my teenage years I became aware of mortality in the way you only can by getting older. Something, for good reason, keeps you from that understanding in youth. After that, death became my biggest fear. But now I am pressing sixty and I can say for certain there are far worse things to be afraid of then death or damnation.
I am not sorry for what I have become, nor do I fear the consequences. What I do fear is how much longer I will suffer. Something else I have come to know is that all things are equal and nowhere does that hold more true than with pain and pleasure. The old lore is wrong. A simple diet of blood will not suffice. We need suffering. Suffering is our sustenance. The suffering of our like is good, of the acquaintances we make fine, of the innocent divine.
I was thirty five when it all began. I had been married to poor Shannon for ten years. She had given me two beautiful daughters, twin girls that were turning five that year. My job paid well, we had no debt with the exception of a mortgage. The house was decent, three bedrooms and a big backyard complete with a golden retriever. On the surface it was a good life.
In my twenties I had developed a taste for inappropriate things. During the later part of my marriage my sex life with Shannon turned from monotonous to nonexistent. Then, as if I was starving,
At the hill clearing they stopped, the creature dropped William’s mangled ankle. William put his hand to his face. His face was wet with blood, covered in gashes and flaps of torn skin. Whimpering and unable to rise, William looked up to see the scarecrow standing over him. Its arms to its side and head cocked like a confused dog. It lifted its arms and removed its gloves. The scarecrows hands were made out of twigs but looked skeletal. It slowly lowered itself towards William. Closing his eyes out of pure fear, William quietly began saying a prayer. The prayer was one his mom had taught him for bedtime as a child. William felt a boney grasp as one hand wrapped around his throat. With his eyes tightly shut, he shuddered when the pointed fingertips of the other hand brushed his stomach. William convulsed as the scarecrow’s fingers penetrated his stomach slowly. Then, like a frenzied animal, the scarecrow began disemboweling him.
William’s Grandpa had gotten home later than usual and went straight to bed. In the morning, when he didn’t find William in the guest room, he figured he got an early start. After finding no trace of him at any of the normal jobs, he became worried and jumped into his pickup. He drove all the field service roads but when he got to the end of the south field by the old fence, something caught his eye. Looking up on the hill, it was the old scarecrow. Even though he couldn’t see it very well, he had been looking at it for thirty years. In that time it had always looked one breeze away from dust. This morning however, it seemed as if someone had just put it up there. The scarecrow’s shirt wasn’t flapping in the wind any more. Now it had the appearance of a belly, like it had just been stuffed.
William’s grandpa got in his truck and headed back to the farm house. Inside, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer. He took a seat at a little kitchen table beside the window. Maybe he went hiking or to town , he thought. Sipping his beer, he contemplated how long to wait before calling the boy’s mom. Looking out the window, his thoughts changed for moment. His focus was on the plants and trees. The leaves were starting to change, autumn was coming. The year had gone by too fast and it hadn’t been a good one. He was losing hope for the farm. Largely because of this feeling he had that had grown stronger today. It was a fear that, like the old Wilson place, his soil was going bad.
The Vampire Next Door
When I was a child, I was afraid of the devil. Sometime during my teenage years I became aware of mortality in the way you only can by getting older. Something, for good reason, keeps you from that understanding in youth. After that, death became my biggest fear. But now I am pressing sixty and I can say for certain there are far worse things to be afraid of then death or damnation.
I am not sorry for what I have become, nor do I fear the consequences. What I do fear is how much longer I will suffer. Something else I have come to know is that all things are equal and nowhere does that hold more true than with pain and pleasure. The old lore is wrong. A simple diet of blood will not suffice. We need suffering. Suffering is our sustenance. The suffering of our like is good, of the acquaintances we make fine, of the innocent divine.
I was thirty five when it all began. I had been married to poor Shannon for ten years. She had given me two beautiful daughters, twin girls that were turning five that year. My job paid well, we had no debt with the exception of a mortgage. The house was decent, three bedrooms and a big backyard complete with a golden retriever. On the surface it was a good life.
In my twenties I had developed a taste for inappropriate things. During the later part of my marriage my sex life with Shannon turned from monotonous to nonexistent. Then, as if I was starving,
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