Archive for the Horror Category

An Ode to the Dearly Departed VI

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on June 15, 2012 by GuNNhead

That evening, not many people are inside the bar yet. Maggie steps outside just as the sun is about to set, and lights a cigarette. Season handles the current customers drink orders as the only girl at the saloon to not service the other requests of the patrons. Outside, Maggie is the first to see another stranger is on the horizon from the gates to the city. Thinking about the Preacher’s personal lecture from today on ‘what she’s supposed to do’ she runs up to the stranger. Something about him catches her eye, she looks around to notice no others have spotted him. She secretively takes him in through the back door of the bar. She brings him some water and food. He drinks and eats a little, then passes out from exhaustion. After an hour or so has gone by, the sun has well set, and most people have drunk enough to head out into the center of town for the festivities, she walks into the backroom. Seeing him still asleep, she removes his gun, and admires the hilt. A loud explosion startles her and wakes him up, he quickly grabs his gun from her hand, spinning and holstering it.

“Who are you, what was that, and don’t touch my gun. These are not questions.” She casually backs away and rolls her eyes, as if exasperated and insulted by his in-hospitality towards her attempt at stealing his gun.
“Oh, please, it was just the fireworks, town started the second night of its anniversary celebrations early. I was just coming back here to check on you, you dropped passed out in front of my bar.”
“Your bar? What town is this?”
“That’s a nice gun you have, mind if I ask where you got it?”
“Yes, I mind.” He gets up to leave.
“The town’s called Harked Node.” The stranger turns around.
“That it?”
“Well, you can’t go out, I was the only one to see you, but this town ain’t in much favor of strangers today. One came in what was crazy and-”
“Look, I don’t rightly reckon that I care, I need to talk to someone who can help me.”
“Help you do what?”
“Where’s the gunsmith?”
“Few buildings down, but he’s not in, he’s tending to his sister with the Preacher. His apprentice is probably watching the fireworks.”
“Any place with ammo or a horse, maybe a map?”
“It’s all closed, I suggest you stay here with me tonight, in the morning things can be sorted easier, without all the commotion and excitement.”
“You got ammo here?”
“Hmm, then it seems that you’re all worthless to me. Thanks for the food and water, but I have vengeance to tend to.” He walks out of the back door, leaving her standing there. As long as he’s still in town, she doesn’t much care anymore.

An Ode to the Dearly Departed V

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on June 13, 2012 by GuNNhead

They stare at the eviscerated remains of Old Gus next to the headless corpse. The Sheriff holsters his gun.
“See, told ya. Lets just go grab two coffins.” They walk outside to a small group of townsfolk gathered to see what the commotion was. The Sheriff removes his hat, holds it over his heart, and addresses the crowd.
“That stranger what come here was a loon, a cannibal. He faked dead, and got old Gus. I took care of it. I suggest you all disperse unless you’ve a strong stomach and are willing to help.” The Doc simply motions for the gunsmith’s apprentice to run and get the Preacher. As he runs off to the church, two local men step up to help with the coffins and the dead. Soon the two bodies are in coffins just outside the sheriff’s office, but the preacher still has not arrived. Another crowd has gathered and dispersed at the sight and smell.

Inside the Preacher’s house, he is tending to his wife. Water with a facecloth for the fever. He prays for her. She’s boiling hot. The errand boy tentatively watches over them from the doorway. The priest knows he must attend to his duties outside. The Lord’s work. Before long, his poor wife falls asleep, and he leaves the trustworthy townsboy to look after her while he leaves to attend to the decisions of the dead.

“Sorry I’m late, Sheriff, that bite must have given my sweet Gloria such a fright, her nerves are shot. She was practically in hysterics.”
“Well, we all know how fragile lady folk can be. You left the boy to watch over her?”
“Yup, the boy and the good Lord. Now, what’s the problem here, that stranger die?”
“More than that, he killed Gus.”
“Ah, god dammit. I’ve been telling you Sheriff, we need more defences against strangers. Only need the righteous and the virtuous, that’s how a town prospers. It’s these godless heathens ruining the expansion of the west.”
“I don’t need more of this bullshit, Preacher, you know most everyone here believes in their own thoughts. It’s actions, not beliefs that shape the west. Most of the men I’ve killed for this town have come claiming religiosity or some sort of inspired divinity. Shoulda been lockin em up for insanity spoutin that nonsense, but the blood on their hands and the cruelty in their hearts show through their words eventually. Good men don’t need a higher power. It’s these people who look to you, not me.”
“Well, then let’s just calm some people and offer what reassurances I can. It’s already been quite a day.”
“The people are at least askin you do some sort of blessin on the stranger before we seal em both up.”
“I say we burn the sick bastard, no way he’s gettin buried in this town.”
“After I see what he did to my wife, I can’t rightly nor righteously recommend any alternative. Gus’ll get a good, honest Gozerian burial, as was his wishes, but no man harms my wife.” The Preacher stays with the men as they bring the coffins to the cemetery.

They start the fire right away, just on the outside of the graveyard. A few men work quickly and soon old Gus’ grave is dug a few feet deep. He had made his own coffin already. The preacher performs the ritual for Gus, and he is buried. But there was another recent death with a funeral planned for today, a young child. This one’s parents stand and cry, they cannot believe that their only child has died. It’s a sad day for the town that just turned a year old.

Once the bodies are fully buried, and they are patting down the dirt upon them, the preacher turns his attention to the last coffin outside the gates.
“It’s time to cast this heathen cannibal into the fires beyond this world. I told you, Sheriff, outsiders are dangerous, we’ve only been here a year.”
“Preacher, I know it’s best to stay apprehensive, there’s a lot of folks out there, but if a town is to grow, it needs citizens. In the end that’s the Mayor’s call, setting up blockades and turning away folks is the prime way to make this into an outlaw town.”
“Sheriff’s right, preacher, everyone’s a stranger till they’re your neighbor. Still, after the events of today, I think it’d be best as to have some way of keeping our people safe for the festivities tonight. Not lettin anyone in isn’t a welcome way to celebrate, but to keep an eye out and keep us safe is required. Sheriff, I’ll be lookin to you to take care of this. We don’t want a repeat of this morning.”
“I’ll go around now tellin people to make sure to have the Sheriff be the first to talk to strangers. By divine right, they’ll listen to me. Anything to keep people safe from another attack like my Gloria”
“That’s a good idea Preacher, I’ll help with that while the Sheriff prepares, so you can get back to your wife faster.”
“Well, I ain’t got much to prepare in mind, so I’ll try to think up some things, clear my schedule for the evening so I can get a solid open patrol going around the town.”

An Ode to the Dearly Departed IV

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on June 6, 2012 by GuNNhead

[3 Days Earlier]

Seven men stand on a tall ridge. One of them doesn’t belong. His legs are just about finished being tied together. He can hear the rushing rapids a great distance below him.

“You stupid fucking pieces of shit. Don’t you see that you’re already dead? In the west, a man’s only good as his word, his word’s only as good as his gun; I’m the best, good will prevail.”
“You damn fool, in the west, ain’t nobody good.” They secure the burlap sac over the man’s head, and kick him off the cliff edge into the ravine.

His body thrashes around in the rapids, shocked by the cold after being marched through the desert tied to a horse. Taken downstream, he hits a few rocks, but manages to stay above the water. With his hands and legs tied together, his exhausted energy doesn’t last long with his gear weighing him down. The rope trailing behind his legs gets caught on some branches under the water, and stops his flow further down river. He manages to get his hands towards his boots, and uses his spurs to cut the rope. He is almost through when the branch snaps, and the current overpowers him, sending him head-first into a rock.

He awakes some time later with a facefull of thorns and coughing up water, but he’s still breathing. The ropes on his hands have become free from the cutting. He removes the burlap bag over his face that saved his skin from the sun while laying on the small shore. As he removes it, the barbs come with it. He makes his way out of the mud and onto some sand, untying his feet. He hops down to the mud again, and picks up his other boot, pouring water out of his. Back on the sand, he puts it on and takes further inventory. Holsters, guns, and ammo belt, all empty, but all still there. He stands up, and keeps following the river, it is much calmer now.

Following the flow of water over the next nights it eventually calms even more, turning into a stream. He sees a bridge that crosses the gap between the raised land carved by water of years gone by. Under the bridge he sees a figure in its shade. He approaches cautiously, trying to make out what it is, but cannot quite make it out. Apprehensive and out of bullets, he still removes his pistol. The sun shines off his empty gun. As he gets closer, he finds that it’s a fallen horse. He slowly approaches it, and taps it with his boot to see whether it’s is alive or not. Moving its head with his gun reveals only decay, partially eaten by mudcrabs, must have been here a day or so. He opens the saddlebag, and begins searching for ammo, food, anything. Nothing. With a sigh of disappointment, he heads up a small path and onto the bridge.

He sees smoke rising off in the distance. The sun doesn’t look too bad. Whatever that fire is, lost and tired, he knows it’s his only hope of a chance. He unties the wet burlap sack from his holster, protects himself from the sun, and starts walking out into desert on the new, barely visible path.

An Ode to the Dearly Departed II

Posted in Fiction, Horror, Western on June 1, 2012 by GuNNhead

On the quick walk down main street, Doc is stopped outside Bar Romero by the local saloon girl.
“Doc, hey Doc!”
“Oh, Maggie! How’s everyone’s favorite saloon gal?”
“I’m doin just fine, word has it there’s a stranger what came into town just now.”
“Yup, headin to the Sheriff’s office to fix him up, he wasn’t on horseback, so he’s probably in pretty rough shape.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“I don’t think he’s your type a man, Mag, he bit Gloria somethin fierce.”
“He sounds like exactly my kinda man.”
“Now, Maggie, differences aside, you just mind the saloon till we know more about him, alright?”
“Yeah, okay Doc.”
“I’ll stop by later, no need to worry your pretty head, I’ll patch this guy up as good as new.”
“Thanks, I’ll see you later, and have somethin’ cool and perspirin’ ready for ya”
“You’re a doll, Mag.”

Outside the Sheriff’s Office, Mr. Rumpert sits impatiently beside the open door.
“George, what’re you doin’ outside the Sheriff’s office, ain’t ya supposed ta be gettin a haircut?”
“Oh yeah, well, I helped bring in the stranger, just warnted ta see what was up, I gots a weird feelin’ ‘bout this, Doc.”
“I guess I meant doin sittin outside.”
“Oh, well that new feller stinks somethin fierce, ne’er smelt somethin’ so bad in all my days.”
“Where’s the Sheriff?”
“He just went to Miss Vicky’s to git some o’ that there pot-porry, persn’ly, I think he’s takin a shinin’ to her. Might be a while.”
“Well, with the Sheriff, I have little doubt many women’ve taken a shinin’ to him as well. I guess I better take a look at this guy anyhoo.”
“Sure, go on in, he’s locked up tighter than the barmaid.”
“Yeah, thanks, George, you better go get that hair cut, you’ll find out soon enough how he’s doin, way word travels around here.”
“Yeah, I reckon you’re right.”

The Doctor walks inside, and immediately holds his monogrammed handkerchief up to his face, covering his nose. He sees the man in the cell, propped up against the wall and the bars. His face is leathery, and he appears to be unconscious. The Doc puts down his bag of tools and tinctures and slowly approaches him, bending down. Taking a knee, he carefully reaches in between the bars, to check for a pulse on his neck. He pulls back, holding back a gag from the smell, before repositioning himself in case he actually vomits, so he won’t vomit on himself or the man; though, he thinks, that might actually make him smell better. His hand goes back in between the bars; a bead of sweat drips down his forehead, and between his glasses, down his face. His index finger touches the sunburnt skin on the neck of the man.

“What?” The Doc, startled, pulls his hand back. “Oh, it’s just you, Sheriff.”
“Well who’d ya think it’d be, the boogerman? I just went to get some smellsgood next door, it’s worse than death in here.”
“You’re tellin’ me.”
“So what’s the verdict?”
“I was just gettin around to checkin his pulse, he don’t seem to be breathin.” The Doctor turns away from the Sheriff, and reaches his hand back in towards the man, and places it upon his neck.
“Hmm,” he looks away, down towards his watch, and counts…

“Well, that’s fifteen seconds. I’m sorry, Sheriff, this man’s dead.”
“Musta been the dehydration, or sun.”
“Probably, I’ll check for wounds after once we’re outside, let’s go down to old Gus, get a coffin for this poor fella, nothin’ I can do for him.”

The Satan Experiment

Posted in Fiction, Horror on May 11, 2011 by GuNNhead

I thought it would be so easy. There were cults, offshoots throughout history, recent history even: an easy way to mislead people through their beliefs. Give them some sort of hope, a way to fight the world at large, to fight back for themselves how I did. I struggled and I overcame. I was never the best person, but I certainly wasn’t the worst. I worshipped the worst. I wanted to lead others in this. I also wanted to get rich in the process, but that’s not a bad thing, is it? Greed, it was a tool to aid my master. Satan. Heck, it was worth a shot, I already had a nice house a distance away from the nearest neighbour, secluded in the hills.

Getting followers was the easy part, a lot of people want to worship, but where to do it? They wanted, needed and desired a community. The feeling of belonging. I felt that within myself. These people, lost in their lives of depression could not. I guided them. Outfits, donations. I truly built something, and before long, I felt that I belonged as well. In my attempt to attain money, I’d attained friends within the honouring of the devil, our dark lord. I felt a part of a community. I felt bad for manipulating these people. We were together in satanic rituals and so much more.

Before long, I’d made friends, I was in power. I was Satan’s messenger. Chosen by myself. They were my followers. One in particular was truly devout in her faith, Christina. She followed the rites to the letter, and soon became my second in command. She was an amicable lass, very even-tempered. I could never tell if she truly worshipped satan, or was merely faking the hardest to fit in. Most of the people, I could tell. It was an alternative way to fit in, not a belief. I’d question my beliefs; I knew I was in it for the money, though I never let on. The people had too much faith in me, there was no question in them that I could possibly not be who I said I was, that my belief ran straight through my soul, even before that one night…

Everyone was gathered together in the circular ritual room, and we all started to chant, Christina, the virgin was beginning to worry… we could smell the fear in her sweat… our chanting became louder and louder. I led them as they all began to violently grab at each other and stimulate one another; the ground began to cave in and Satan emerged. His gigantic, raging hard, veiny erection ripped through the virgin as she screamed out in agony, but knew that what she was doing was what she was born to do: sacrifice her body to Satan.

Some nights before the end, I began to have nightmares; horrific dreams of the sound of screams. Babies being torn from mother’s wombs, raped, mutilation. The smells, oh god the smells. I could never have fathomed these without the aid of hell. Sulphur; the innards of a man, mixing. These things have no correlation, they are guttural, when I smelt them, I knew them all too well. I woke up to her, Christina, my follower looming over me, staring, but, upon closing my eyes and reopening, there would be nothing. My door, locked. I ignored it at first.

The other occultists had been looking at me differently, but not in a suspicious manner. More of a hunger for more. I still had plenty to feed them. The book of Satan is a large one, after all. Teaching and learning are much the same process, and I guided them with what I had learned from my readings. Ways to live best. It was the touching that disturbed me the most. When I would walk by some of the members, a brush upon me was felt. There were smiles exchanged. What should have been warm and welcoming somehow felt cold and foreboding. It was then that their faces came to me after nightmares. More and more faces, always after the smell, the horror.

It was the final night that I saw their faces over my bed before the hellfire enveloped me, and hell came calling. The smiles of my once-followers grew rows of demoniac teeth, and horns erupted from their temples and foreheads. Each of my bones were broken by invisible forces. The flesh tore from my body, and I was bathed in sulphuric salts. This was no nightmare, this was the price I was to pay, for a life of mine, I would be in an eternity of His.

A man begins a satanic cult in order to worship satan (and make a boatload of money while he’s at it). But slowly, things start going wrong. The occultists begin to act differently, without explanation. Soon, the leader’s position as the head of the cult is in sincere danger as things much deeper than the wallets of his followers is at stake.