Tiny Tales of Terror, Page 2

  Without other relatives in the area, Michael George had to make the hard decision. No doubt about it, Granny would have to be moved to a nursing home. Perhaps Mother Superior could help find a decent one up near the convent. And tomorrow she could apply to Social Services. In the meanwhile, she’d pack what Granny might want to take and dispose of worn items.

  Even though she was on the inside track, it still took three precious days for plans to take shape. Ladies from the local church swarmed into the tiny apartment armed with casseroles and cleaning tools. Scrubbing, sweeping, and carrying down bags of trash, they didn’t pause until the little apartment shone.

  Mother Superior arranged a room for Granny in Christ’s Many Mansions, insisting, "It’s clean, well-run, with a decent staff and nutritious food." And so, the placing of Granny was accomplished in record time.

  Michael George loaded some of Granny’s boxes, then arranged to have the rest trucked to Albany. She helped the attendants load Granny into an ambulance transport and, as sad as it was to do this, at least the befogged, old lady wasn’t aware that this chapter in her life had ended. Then Michael George got into the station wagon and followed the ambulance onto the highway. They were soon separated in the heavy traffic and she could only trust the ambulance to safely make the trip.

  As for Michael George, she’d pinched Mother Superior’s large, sharp letter opener and hidden it in the front seat. "Just in case," she whispered, "just in case that killer confronts me."

  Thus fortified, Michael George continued along and soon reached the half-way point of her journey. By now, night had fallen. She was praying for a safe journey, when a vehicle came up behind her, flashing red lights. Not understanding why the highway patrol would stop her, she pulled off onto the shoulder and fished for her wallet. She’d no sooner located her information, when he appeared at the window. A dark silhouette.

  "Cut the engine and step out of the car," he ordered sternly. And Michael George began to comply when she realized why the last victim had gotten out of the car. Sarah would have parked on the shoulder and gotten out for a state trooper just as Michael George was doing now. And the killer must have taken his victim elsewhere to dispose of the body.

  She was outside now, standing beside her car, and realized with horror that his car’s lights were blinding, Hell’s blazing red fire, and she knew he was the Lord of Light! Satan! The Angel of Death!

  Cloaked in darkness, his silhouette moved closer until he towered over her. Her lips moved in silent prayer as she held out the letter opener to ward him off. Too close to draw his gun, he grabbed for her weapon. He was bigger and stronger but, somehow in the struggle, the point pierced his throat. Blood gushed over them. He sank, gurgling, to the grass, the letter opener protruding from the wound.

  Uncertain of her options, Michael George’s mind raced. All spattered with blood, I can’t just drive off. Did this madman call in my license plate? Did his vehicle make a video tape of me killing him? Will I be arrested for murder?

  While she turned this torturous puzzle over in her mind, a second patrol car arrived, its bright-white halo blinding her. "Help me!" she begged. "I’ve killed the serial killer."

  A man got out, his tall silhouette moving toward her. He stepped into the light so she could see his uniform, his badge. He stood looking down at the fallen trooper with a delighted grin. Then she noticed the newcomer’s shoes. In sharp contrast to the crisp uniform, he wore scuffed sneakers. The killer stood between her and the letter opener. Defenseless, she tried to back away, but he was too quick.

  Still grinning, he confided, "They always stop for a state trooper."

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  GHOULISH DELIGHT

  In her majesty’s diplomatic service, India, 1949

  When I was a boy, my friends and I took delight in poking fun at the very thought of legendary ghouls. Back then, my family lived in India where my father served as a British diplomat and where shambling, mindless, flesh-eating ghouls were part of the native lore.

  We often roamed the bazaar near the embassy, with its soft silks, in bright colors edged in gold, its aromatic spices and tasty bean and potato dishes, its ever-present bovines wandering about. And so it was with great delight that one day we discovered an old, blind, beggar woman who sat at the end of one of the narrow alleys just off the bazaar. For a coin, she offered to tell us more about the flesh eaters.

  Thinking this to be a bargain, I rooted about in my pockets until a coin was dredged up and handed over. After tucking the proffered payment deep into a small pouch, she would arrange her ragged sari about her, then settle back and begin in a high, cracked voice.

  "These monsters were first spoken of in Arabian folklore," she insisted. "Ghouls are mindless, shambling creatures, who hide in shadows, wear dirty rags, and either prowl graveyards to feast on the dead or attack and devour the living." She always ended her tale with this warning. "Beware," she would whisper, sending shivers up our spines, "a ghoul is a shape-shifter, who can assume the form of a jackal."

  In our made-up games we often ran up and down back alleys to escape these creatures, then pretended to give chase. It was all good fun and I offer no apologies for my foolishness, as any red-blooded lad would have done the same.

  We were young enough to believe that if a ghoul much bigger and stronger than ourselves attacked, we would be able to give him the slip by simply poking him in the eye. And we cheerily agreed that this same defense would surely work on werewolves. It was many years later that I grew old enough to relegate the supposed existence of such abominations to the same realm as ravening werewolves, thirsty vampires, and marauding mummies.

  Eventually, my father’s tour came to an end and our little family planned to return to England. My parents fancied purchasing a London townhouse for their retirement, while it had been arranged that I would take a government post near to home.

  Our final month in India passed too quickly for my mum as she directed the packing, determining nothing precious should be left behind. While my father prowled through his many papers one last time, I took advantage of the lack of supervision. In no time at all, my friend, Bertie, and I met for a game of squash.

  Bertie and I had always been rather evenly matched, but this time he quickly flagged. Before long his breathing became ragged, his face flushed, and he seemed on the verge of tripping. Oddly, he wore a dirty, ragged bandage on his right forearm.

  "Are you ill, Bertie," I asked with concern.

  "Jus a lil fever, is all," he replied, slurring his words.

  I began packing up, remarking, "You’d do better in the comfort of your own bed. Perhaps call a physician."

  I dropped Bertie off and returned home to find our house still in chaos. Sad to say a few days passed before I thought to ring him up. When there was no answer, I assumed he was out running errands. My time was taken up with last-minute packing and several more days passed before I again thought of Bertie. My family was taking an afternoon plane and, before leaving, I determined to visit his home that very morning to be sure he was all right.

  Reading the paper over breakfast, I was surprised to learn there had been two murders; people attacked in narrow alleys late at night, their bodies partly eaten. Probably by dogs, thought I. And in Bertie’s neighborhood, too! But the names of the victims were those of complete strangers and so, I breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t been Bertie after all. I notified my parents that I’d be back in time for our departure and set off.

  Before the hour was out, I was standing outside his front door, surprised to find it ajar, and called out, "Bertie! Bertie! Are you there?"

  There was no answer and the surrounding silence was frightening. Could someone have gotten in and attacked him? Was my friend … and maybe even his family … now lying dead in a pool of blood?

  I slipped inside and felt for the light. The switch flicked up and down and still the little home remained dark. With just en
ough sunlight filtering in from the garden, I made out that soiled, ragged bandage my friend had worn during the squash match. It lay on the floor, streaked with dried blood. Terror gripped me. "Bertie! It’s John! Are you there?" And still no response.

  Then I heard it. Coming from the direction of the bedroom, the sound of someone moving, stumbling along, down the hall, coming closer. My eyes stared into the darkness, finally making out the form of a man, roughly Bertie’s size and shape, but something about it was off. And all the while, it lurched nearer, without uttering a word.

  Something was wrong here! So very wrong! And I’m ashamed to say I turned to run, to escape, without further thought to my friend or his family. But I wasn’t fast enough for whatever it was suddenly sprang at me, knocking me to the floor. It landed on top of me with a grunt and, while the stench of its unwashed body was ghastly, its breath was even worse. Without a word, it gripped me fast and its teeth tore at my arm, as if it meant to eat me alive.

  Pinned flat, I poked one finger in my attacker’s eye. The fellow reared back, roaring mightily, and released me as both hands flew to its injury. Then, to my surprise, he ran off into the back bedroom on all fours. Enough! I jumped to my feet and scrambled for the door. The door slammed fast behind me and, gaining the street again, I hurried off to rouse the authorities.

  When help arrived, it was discovered that the monster had been Bertie after all, but so changed even I had difficulty recognizing him. After the searchers stumbled across his parents’ half-eaten bodies in the courtyard, it was agreed Bertie could no longer roam free. Men bundled my friend up and carted him off to a place of incarceration, muttering to themselves. "It’s happening again!"

  A doctor was called to treat me. An Indian physician, who after hearing the account and examining my wounds, shook his head. "There is no cure, you realize," he whispered in a sad voice.

  "No cure for what? What have I contracted?"

  But the fellow wouldn’t explain further. He gestured to the men who had been waiting on the side. They came at me in a group and, brooking none of my nonsense, began to bundle me up just like Bertie. There was no way I could have broken free, not from so many, but my old childhood defense against attackers might just work again. Once I began poking at their eyes, they couldn’t hold me.

  As I tried to work my way back to my parents’ home, the going became difficult as so many men now milled about in the narrow streets and alleys, all of them searching for me. And it was necessary to find a place to clean up and bandage my arm before allowing mum to set eyes on me. The staff car was pulling up in front of the house as I finally came trotting up.

  "Just like you, boy, to keep us waiting," my father growled.

  "All your things have been sent on ahead," mum twittered. "Just get in the back seat." Then she noticed my bandage and frowned.

  "Squash injury," I muttered by way of explanation, climbing aboard.

  As my parents got in front and slammed the doors, father announced, "And not a moment too soon. The locals have gone mad. They seem to think there’s a ghoul epidemic abroad in the land!"

  And then I knew! Bertie must have been bitten. And he turned. He had bitten me. And I would turn, too. The car was moving slowly because of the searching throngs. My mind whirled.

  "Nothing like diplomatic immunity," father remarked dryly as our vehicle continued to cut through the throng. "We can still make our plane."

  I doubled up, feeling sick and disoriented. But one thing was clear. I couldn’t bring this plague back to England. Not to my parents’ home! Quickly, I threw open my door and leapt from the car. My balance was no longer good and I went sprawling, watching the car as it kept moving, my parents not realizing I’d gone. I gained my footing and glanced about. All those people turned to stare at me, at my bandage, realizing they’d found me. And I stared back and dropped to all fours.

  Then they came at me, in a wave. I knew their weight would crush me, prayed the end would come swiftly. And all the while I understood and forgave them. The plague must be contained. I must be contained. This sickness must not spread. There was no escape. No way to poke them all in the eye!

  As my knees buckled and they swarmed over me, a terrible thought took hold …

  What had become of the chap who’d bitten Bertie?

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  HOWLING MOON

  Lycos, the werewolf moon, circling the planet Arcadia

  They say men are from Mars and women are from Venus. And lycanthropes are from Lycos, the silvery, third moon that circles Arcadia, the green planet. On Lycos, at any given time, at least 85 percent of its population are werewolves from birth. And the other 15 percent, those who fail to transform, don’t survive very long.

  Oddly, this moon is noted for its major export of wolfsbane, its supposed affects being lost on the enormous population of lycanthropes. It seems that with so many howlers all turning at once during the six monthly cycles, the plant loses its ability to repel. Their non-lycanthropic queen discovered this to her horror, her bloody remains having been found in her satin-sheeted boudoir, surrounded by cuttings of this perennial plant, with its leaves like sharp teeth.

  The news of the queen’s murder spread across the galaxy. The legitimate media and tabloids of 25 star colonies carried the sordid tale and every government in the galaxy reinforced their laws. The citizens of Lycos were forever banned from leaving their planet.

  They must not relocate! They must not mate with citizens of other worlds!" Thus spoke Charleton Gray, Arcadian Prime Minister.

  "My God, no!" agreed the emissary from Arcadia’s Red Mountain zone. "If even one escaped, it could spread werewolfery across our galaxy."

  But it was already too late as Rayn, a resident of Lycos and a member in good standing of the Werewolf Legion, had grown weary of his life as a cargo handler and yearned to explore the wonders of the galaxy. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he stowed away in a shipment of wolfsbane. The pod in which he’d sought refuge was taken aboard the space ship with the rest of the cargo. And, in no time at all, this tainted, young man was lifted off world.

  When the ship reached its destination, Rayn disembarked. He obtained the uniform of an Arcadian space station worker and slipped unnoticed into the city. But relocating wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. Those of Lycos had a swarthy look and the Arcadians were pale, with eyes the color of ice. Rayn soon realized that the stolen uniform and a pair of sunglasses wasn’t enough of a disguise.

  He hid in one of Arcadia’s lush, green forests, just outside of town, and slipped out only long enough to grab food. From time to time, as he slunk around the farm houses after dark, he’d hear newscasts. But this night was special, for he came across a wanted poster that shouted WEREWOLF AT LARGE. The notice read, "The shipping pod originating in Lycos contained evidence that a werewolf had stowed away on Friday’s flight. The beast has yet to be apprehended and this could result in a lycanthropic plague of galactic proportions."

  The baying of hounds brought Rayn to his senses and he realized silvery moonlight was shining down on him. Expecting to transform at any moment, he hurried back to his hiding place and waited, breathlessly, for the change to occur. Time passed and nothing happened. Impossible, he thought. Those on Lycos changed frequently, the full moon appearing six times each month, but on Arcadia, it was different. Coming only once a month, its silvery rays seemed to have no affect on him.

  The hounds were closer now. Having taken his scent from the pod, they were hunting him. Rayn tried to outrun them, but in the end, he was surrounded. Outnumbered, he boldly shouted, "I see Prime Minister Gray deems me important enough to send the Palace Guard!"

  "He’s not a lycanthrope," their captain observed, ordering Rayn chained and dragged back. Remaining in human form proved fortunate for the werewolf. When the guards threw the fugitive at the Prime Minister’s feet, the great man declared, "It seems this one is in t
he minority that doesn’t carry the tainted gene." Turning to the emissary from the Red Mountain zone, he instructed, "Invite Lycos’s new ruler, Queen Fayva, to come to Arcadia to discuss a peaceful coexistence."

  "After all," Gray declared at the next council meeting, "the ones that don’t transform seem safe enough. And extending short-term travel visas to non-lycanthropes would boost Arcadia’s economy."

  "What if the gene is recessive?" asked the emissary. "What if the ones who have never transformed mate with Arcadians and are able to pass the disease along?" But the Prime Minister ridiculed him until he left the chamber in disgrace, muttering, "The beginning of our end."

  As the great doors slammed shut behind the emissary, Gray wondered about that recessive gene. Turning to his captain, he ordered, "I’m taking no chances. Have this one neutered, then release him."

  And so it was that just three months later, Lycos’s newest monarch, Queen Fayva, agreed to negotiate with the Arcadian high council. It was midnight when her majesty disembarked onto the space station and waited, bathed in Arcadian moonlight. In her honor, the band began softly playing "Moonlight Becomes Her," a tune once popular on Earth.

  As Prime Minister Gray stepped forward to welcome her, Fayva, who’d never transformed before, suddenly drew back in agony. "Are you ill?" Gray asked solicitously. Ignoring the welcoming committee, Fayva hunched over, grimacing.

  May we assist you," Gray asked, but Fayva only snarled and growled in answer. Catching sight of her face, Gray panicked and tried to run, but his entourage unwittingly blocked his path. And Fayva, now completely transformed, tore Gray and his party to pieces.

  High above the crowd, from an observation post in the command tower, the emissary grabbed the microphone and shouted his warning. "It’s in reverse!" Those in the terminal below stared up at him. "The moonlight is different on Lycos! It turns normal humans into werewolves . . . and werewolves into . . ."

  But those below had ceased to listen as Fayva rampaged among them, tearing a bloody trail as she went.

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