9 Tales Told in the Dark 18 Read online

  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK #18

  © Copyright 2016 Bride of Chaos/ All Rights Reserved to the Authors.

  First electronic edition 2016

  Edited by A.R. Jesse

  Cover by Turtle&Noise

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes) prior written permission must be obtained from the author and publisher.

  This Collection is presented by THE 9 TALES SERIES for more information on this series please visit www.brideofchaos.com

  THE AUTHORS YOU SHOULD BE READING

  Visit our Website for FREE STORIES

  And ‘Like’ us on Facebook for all the latest news and FREE PROMOTIONS

  https://www.facebook.com/The9Tales

  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK #18

  Table of Contents

  STRIPE Z.T. by Mark Bearden

  NIGHT OF THE ZOMBIES by Joseph Rubas

  HOLDING ACTION by Jim Lee

  FRESH CUT by Sara Green

  THE FARMER WHO TRULY LOVED HIS WIFE by Shane Porteous

  THE MAN FROM TURKEY CREEK CANYON by Lee Clark Zumpe

  COLD FLESH by Andrew Knighton

  SECOND HEARTBEAT by Daniel Brock

  LITTLE GIRLS by Daniel Kirk

  .

  .

  .

  .

  TALES

  TOLD

  IN

  THE

  DARK

  #18

  STRIPE Z.T. by Mark Bearden

  Death takes on many shapes and forms, or so the TV evangelist that my parents worship says. But for my mom, death is a black and white eight-legged freak of nature that I call Stripe Z.T.

  Eight days before my eleventh birthday, I’m watching a hornet battle a wolf spider in a glass jar on my desk when mom storms in and says, “Honey, dessert is ready. Come and get it.”

  “What did you make this time?”

  The hornet stings the wolf spider’s head. The wolf spider shakes it off, rises on its back legs, and bites the hornet’s neck.

  “Apple cinnamon muffins,” Mom says. “Better get them while they’re hot.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right there.” I can eat mom’s homemade muffins like some people eat potato chips. Mom works at Sweet Tooth Bakery, and she’s only good at making apple cinnamon muffins. Don’t ask her to cook or bake anything else or you’ll be friends with Mr. Toilet Man all night long.

  “What in God’s name are you doing, Pete?” Mom peeks over my shoulder. The hornet and wolf spider are wrestling like two superheroes on opposite sides of the galaxy.

  “Whose gonna win, mom?” The wolf spider sinks its teeth into the hornet’s belly. The hornet twitches like it’s about to go into convulsions.

  “I don’t care,” Mom says. “Is this your idea of a great time?”

  “It’s almost better than Alien VS Predator.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, boy,” Mom says.

  “I wanted to see what would happen if I put the two together,” I say. “There’s nothing wrong in that.”

  Earlier, I slammed the glass jar on top of a hornet as soon as it landed on the picnic table. I flipped the jar right side up and screwed on the lid before it could escape. Then I scooped up a wolf spider (who was crawling on the back porch) with a garden shovel, and dumped him inside.

  “It’s cruel, Pete,” Mom says. “Me and your dad raised you better than that.”

  “Loosen up, mom,” I say. “This is fun!”

  “You’re talking crazy, boy!” Mom says. “I’ve seen enough.”

  Mom grabs the jar and comes face to face with the monster movie bobble heads (Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy, and the Wolf Man) resting on the shelf above my computer.

  “It’s beyond me why you have these ugly things!” Mom says.

  “I love them,” I say. “They protect me.”

  “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard,” Mom says. “One of these days, while you’re at school, I’m getting rid of them, and you can’t stop me.”

  “Please, don’t do that, mom.”

  Dad bought the collection for less than fifty bucks at Ray Ray’s Toys that went out of business last summer.

  “You watch me, boy,” Mom says. “There’s gonna be big changes around here soon.”

  Mom holds onto the jar tight, tiptoes to the dresser, and glares at Stripe Z.T., my Zebra Tarantula, hanging upside down in his cage.

  “I wish you’d get rid of this nasty thing.”

  Stripe Z.T. hops down and leaps on top of the sponge in his water bowl.

  “He’s my best friend, mom.”

  Stripe Z.T. stares at mom like he can’t wait to jump on her and bite her neck until her heart stops for good.

  “Why can’t you be normal and have a dog or cat?”

  “Stripe Z.T. understands me,” I say. “We have a lot in common.”

  “I ain’t sure what possessed your dad to get that monster!” Mom says. “You’ve changed ever since that damn spider came into our lives.”

  “I’m the same ole me, mom,” I say. “I just have Stripe Z.T. to watch over me and keep me safe.”

  Stripe Z.T. was the last tarantula left at Beyond Wild Universe at the Cotton Dust Fair. The guy who sold the tarantula to us for a hundred and twenty bucks said, “Whatever you do never touch him or he’ll bite you.”

  “But he’s so cute,” I said. “I wanna hold him.”

  “I’d keep my distance if I were you,” The guy said. “One bite and you’ll be dead in sixty seconds or less.”

  Stripe Z.T. ain’t gonna hurt me. I have a better connection with the eight-legged dude than I do with my parents.

  “I pray every day for God to strike him dead,” Mom says.

  Mom leaves my room, carries the jar to the kitchen sink, fills it half way with cold water, and closes the lid.

  “Now this is what I call fun, boy,” Mom laughs as the hornet and wolf spider drowns. “God is smiling right now! Can you feel it?”

  I don’t blame dad for leaving her after she fired five shots (from a Semmerling LM-4 Derringer she keeps in her purse) at him all because he forgot to pay the electric bill. Late that night, dad kissed my forehead, went out for an Allsup’s ice cream sandwich, and never came back.

  I don’t want mom to shoot me so I keep my mouth shut, dart to the bathroom, shut the door, and pretend to do my business.

  Mom knocks and says, “Are you gonna join me for dessert, Pete? I’d hate to eat them all by myself.”

  To keep the peace, I sit with mom on the couch, take three bites of a muffin, and get sick to my stomach. Mom is too busy stuffing her face and watching 3:10 to Yuma to notice. How can she have an appetite after murdering the hornet and wolf spider?

  Mom finishes doing the dishes, and pops in Reba McEntyre’s Greatest Hits in the CD player on the kitchen table. Reba’s “Fancy” comes on, and mom dances, sings along, and waves her arms in the air like she’s at a Holy Roller tent revival.

  The song ends, and mom’s stomach gurgles. She belches, buckles over, leans on the E-Z chair, and says, “I shouldn’t have eaten half a dozen muffins. I just couldn’t stop.” She moans as if she’s gonna give birth. “I’m paying for it now!”

  Mom hauls butt to the bathroom, trips over my feet, and lands on her right arm. I hear a loud crack. Mom screams, “Help me!” Then she throws up on my brand new Converse tennis shoes.

  “Do something, Pete!” Mom yells. “I’m dying here!”

  I call grandma bec
ause she’s the only one I can count on to be there whenever I need her.

  After taking mom to the hospital, grandma drops her off and says, “You get lots of rest, Aran.”

  “You bet I will,” Mom says. “I could’ve broken my neck and died!”

  Mom’s arm is in a cast. No doubt, she’ll survive. Why does she act like a demon possessed truck hit her and broke every bone in her body?

  “You made it, and that’s all that matters,” Grandma says.

  “It’s that boy’s fault I broke my arm,” Mom says, plopping down on a rocking chair in front of a blank TV screen.

  “You don’t mean that, Aran,” Grandma says.

  “He tripped me because I told him how much I hate his precious spider.”

  “Stop blaming, Pete, when you know damn well it was an accident,” Grandma says.

  I’m hiding under the kitchen table, while mom and grandma duke it out.

  “That boy’s mean as hell!” Mom says.

  “No, he’s not,” Grandma says. “Pete would never hurt anybody.”

  “I may never get to use my arm again.”

  “It’ll heal,” Grandma says. “Just do like the doctor says and get lots of rest and try not to move it too much.”

  “I ain’t getting my hopes up,” Mom says. “That boy has caused nothing but trouble since the day he was born!”

  “Pete is a good boy,” Grandma says. “You apologize to my grandson right now.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, you old bag,” Mom says. “That boy is a monster!”

  Grandma tells me she loves me, blows me kisses, and says, “Ya’ll be nice to each other, and try to have a good evening.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen,” Mom says. “Not as long as that boy is around.”

  “I’ve gotta put a load of laundry on, and then have dinner,” Grandma says. “But I’ll take Pete to school and pick him up until you get better.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Grandma says. “I’m doing this for my grandson, and not you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Grandma steps outside the front door, cocks her head back, and says, “See ya’ll bright and early.”

  The morning after mom arrives home from the hospital, I catch her pouring rubbing alcohol into Stripe Z.T.’s water bowl.

  “Are you crazy, mom? You’ll kill him!”

  “He’s evil, Pete,” Mom says.

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “None of your business.”

  “He’s the only friend I got.”

  “Once I get rid of Stripe Z.T. you’ll be normal again.”

  “Why can’t you accept me for who I am?”

  “Admit it, boy,” Mom says. “You love your damn spider more than me.”

  “I don’t have time for this crap,” I say.

  “Poor baby,” Mom says. “You only think about yourself.”

  “That ain’t true, mom.”

  The doorbell rings. It’s seven a.m.

  “I bet that’s grandma,” Mom says, setting the rubbing alcohol bottle next to Stripe Z.T.’s cage. “Better hurry. You don’t wanna be late for school.”

  I strap my backpack on my shoulders and say, “If anything bad happens to Stripe Z.T. I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.”

  “I’m scared,” Mom says. “Run along now.”

  “I mean it, mom,” I say. “You better leave my buddy alone.”

  “He may or may not be alive when you get home. I haven’t decided,” Mom says. “I ain’t responsible for what goes down when I’m alone with the bastard.”

  “Damn you, mom! I hate you!”

  For seven days, grandma picks me up at seven a.m., buys me a Sonic sausage, egg, cheese, and potato burrito, and drops me off at school. When she picks me up, she treats me to a Dairy Queen Oreo Blizzard.

  For the most part, mom stays in bed, holds an ice pack that she wraps in a towel against her arm, and screams for God to take her to paradise. Every night, I have to cook spaghetti with meat sauce and serve her glass after glass of chocolate milk.

  For an early birthday present, grandma buys me a Fiesta Chicken sandwich, BBQ chips, and a large Sprite from Schlotzsky’s. In the driveway of my parent’s house, grandma hands me a Monster Squad gift bag and says, “You’re birthday ain’t until tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait.”

  “What did you get me, grandma?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Grandma says. “What are you waiting for? Open it!”

  I reach inside and pull out a Creature from the Black Lagoon bobble head.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for this guy,” I say. “Where did you find him?”

  “I have my ways,” Grandma says. “I’ll never tell.”

  “Thanks grandma,” I say. “This completes my collection.”

  “Pete, can I give you a little advice.”

  “Sure, grandma.”

  “Don’t listen to your mom,” Grandma says, placing her cold hand over mine. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and I’m proud of you.”

  “Mom hates my guts,” I say. “She scares me.”

  “She’s sick in the head,” Grandma says. “If she tries to pick a fight don’t say a word. Just go to your room and lock the door.”

  “It ain’t that easy.”

  I place the Creature from the Black Lagoon in between the Mummy and Frankenstein on the top shelf. I attempt to do my Algebra homework, but I can’t stop thinking about the way mom killed the hornet and wolf spider.

  Her laugh haunts me.

  I gotta take a break.

  The house is quiet. Is mom asleep?

  Before going to bed, I take two full trash bags to the alley, and find mom squeezing liter fluid into the dumpster.

  “What the hell, mom? You’re not supposed to burn trash!”

  “I’m teaching you a lesson, boy,” Mom says.

  I look in the dumpster. My monster movie bobble heads are drenched in liter fluid.

  “Stop it, mom!” I say. “You know these mean the world to me!”

  “They’re from the devil!” Mom says. “Now move your butt, or I’ll burn you alive!”

  Mom strikes a match and tosses it into the dumpster. My collection goes up in flames.

  “Why are you doing this?” I’m producing enough tears to flood the earth.

  “I’m paying you back for wrecking my life, boy! How does it feel?”

  “You’re insane, mom!”

  “You broke my arm, and ruined my marriage!”

  “Mom, get over it,” I say. “You fell because you’re too damn fat! And dad left because you’re a bitch!”

  “God’s gonna get you for talking to me that way!” Mom squirts liter fluid onto my Horror of Dracula T-shirt.

  “Are you serious? What’s the matter with you?”

  Mom strikes a match on the dumpster, and waves it in front of my face.

  “Don’t worry, boy, I ain’t gonna end your life tonight,” Mom says. “Like God, I’ll show up like a thief in the night, and then catch you on fire!”

  I rush into the house, and lock my bedroom door. Stripe Z.T. is spinning a web. I touch the glass and whisper, “Keep me safe, buddy, I need you more than ever.”

  I slip underneath the covers, and pray for the first time.

  At six-thirty a.m. on a Monday, mom hops in the shower. I twist off the lid to Stripe Z.T.’s cage.

  “Do your thing, my friend, and show mom whose boss.”

  Grandma rings the doorbell.

  On the way to school, I eat a Sonic breakfast burrito, wash it down with a blue PowerAde, and imagine Stripe Z.T. killing my mom.

  “You’re in a good mood today,” Grandma says.

  “Never felt better.”

  On my birthday, I get home from school and notice steam coming from underneath the bathroom door.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  No answer.

  I knock two times.


  “This better not be a joke.”

  Mom ain’t capable of silence.

  I knock six more times.

  “Mom? Are you in there?”

  God, what’s wrong?

  “I’m coming in, whether you like it or not.”

  Inside, I stumble across mom’s lifeless body floating in the bathtub. The tiled floor is flooded. Stripe Z.T. is hanging on the shower curtain, spinning a web as thick as crime scene tape.

  I grab mom’s shoulders, yank her out of the tub, and drag her out of the bathroom. I lie her down on the carpet beside the bed. I take a closer, and notice two fang puncture marks on her Achilles heel.

  “Holy crap!” I run back into the bathroom. “You did it, Stripe Z.T.!”

  Stripe Z.T. finishes his web, falls into the tub, and dies. I fish his body out of the water, and hold him in the palm of my hands.

  “You did this out of love, didn’t you, buddy?”

  I stroke his back with my fingertips, return to my dead mom, and contemplate my next move. Do I call the police, an ambulance, or grandma?

  “What would you do, Stripe Z.T.?”

  I sink to my knees, and place Stripe Z.T. on my mom’s heart, and whisper, “What can I say? She had it coming.”

  THE END.

  NIGHT OF THE ZOMBIES by Joseph Rubas

  Darkness.

  Dampness.

  The urge to dig, to claw. Dirt. Cold against his skin, moist. His mind was muddled, foggy, but he knew he had to get out, to escape.

  Then...fresh night air, chilly, sweet. The moon shone from up high and a breeze swept over him, smelling faintly of burned leaves.

  He sat where he was a moment, the world graying at the edges. He wobbled, almost fell, reached out a hand and grabbed a tuft of wet grass.

  Where was he?

  Blinking, his eyes gritty, he looked about himself: In the bright white glow of the moon, he saw shadows all around, blacker than the night. They were short, three feet; imagining deformed dwarfs, terror seized him, and he fought to stand.

  Only then did he realize that he was sitting in a hole, loose soil piled around him. He looked left and right, confused, his heart beginning to pound faster.

  A hole? What was he doing in a hole? He tried to call up his last memory. Something about needing to go somewhere. He couldn’t visualize it, but he could feel it. He had to go somewhere.