Dark Screams, Volume 8 Read online

  A wino, rumpled and tattered and smelling of urine, slept stretched out on the bench next to him, snoring. The snores were tentative, hitching and sputtering like a malfunctioning compressor. One day soon, Howard knew, the wino’s snoring would hitch and sputter for a final time, then stop altogether. And then the wino would be dead, stone cold, stiff as a board, and not missed by anybody. No more wino.

  A crowd of pigeons stood regarding Howard with beady, distrustful eyes, humorless as a gallows jury. “Fuck off,” he hissed, but they didn’t. They just stood there, watching his every move.

  They knew. He could feel it.

  “Big hairy deal,” he told them, snickering with contempt. “What are you gonna do, call a cop? Who’s gonna listen to a bunch of pigeons anyway?”

  He elbowed the wino for the third time in an hour, trying to shake him awake. “C’mon, buddy, wake up. Let me take you home. My typewriter’s hungry and I’ve got a publishing schedule to meet, whaddya say?”

  The wino said nothing, just continued snoring.

  Howard sighed and gave up on the wino.

  His gaze wandered around the park, hungrily studying all the humanity it contained. Old people fed birds or stared at nothing. A teenage couple kissed and petted on a blanket spread on the grass. A group of legal secretaries in virtually identical charcoal-gray skirt suits shared a picnic lunch and listened to the noontime Vivaldi concert issuing softly from the park speakers. A wild-looking black kid sailed by on a skateboard, his suitcase-sized radio blaring a rap song at a mind-numbing volume. A mounted policeman cantered along the riding trail on a white horse. A horde of kids climbed and capered on a creaky tangle of monkey bars. A pubescent blonde roller-skated by, and, though he couldn’t say why, Howard had a brief flash of déjà-vu. He found himself dimly disappointed that he didn’t have lollipops stapled to the inside of his coat.

  “Water, water, everywhere…” he muttered to nobody in particular.

  His attention went to a stout Mexican woman as she arrived pushing a stroller. The baby it contained was a little girl, judging from the pink jumper she wore. She surveyed the world from under a frilly sunbonnet with bright, endless fascination. Two older children of kindergarten age, both boys, trudged solemnly at their mother’s side, holding on to her skirt, each preoccupied with his very own Big Stick frozen Popsicle.

  The woman settled herself on a bench a short distance from Howard and sent her two boys off to play. She began rocking the stroller back and forth with her foot, humming softly and knitting something in her lap with brightly colored yarn.

  Something for the baby, probably.

  Her attention kept going from her knitting to the playground, where her sons scrambled around on the monkey bars and slides with the other kids, screaming themselves hoarse.

  Howard couldn’t take his eyes off the stroller.

  The Adidas bag waited between his feet, empty.

  Maybe if he wandered over there, casual as you please, smiling and nodding and admiring the baby, kootchy-kooing it under the chin…

  He pushed the thought from his mind. He wouldn’t get fifty feet with the kid tucked under his arm like a football before the mother’s screams brought everybody in the park down on his head. Especially the mounted cop. No, that would never do. He’d have to hit her with something. Something big and heavy so she couldn’t scream…

  A piercing shriek tore the air. He jumped, heart hammering so hard he was afraid it might rip out of his chest. He thought the Mexican woman had somehow read his mind and was even now screaming to bring the authorities.

  But it wasn’t her. It was one of her kids over by the monkey bars. His Big Stick Popsicle had softened in the sunshine, decided that life was no longer worth living, and flung itself off its stick to land in a splattered lump in the sand. The boy was standing over it, wailing with the sort of profound conviction and despair usually reserved for loved ones lost in violent accidents, the naked stick clutched in his little fist.

  The woman threw her knitting aside, hurried over to her son, and dropped to her knees to utter soothing words of comfort. Her other boy stood watching this high drama unfold with wide eyes, his own Big Stick still nestled safely in his grasp where it belonged. He started munching his Popsicle faster, in the event that he should be asked to share it with his less fortunate brother.

  The baby sat untended in her stroller, burbling and gurgling happily, forgotten in the heat of the moment.

  Howard grabbed the Adidas bag, rose swiftly, and started across the grass toward the stroller. “No, no, no,” he mumbled in disbelief, “nobody gets this lucky. Nobody.” But he pressed on nevertheless, feeling as inconspicuous as a naked man dancing a polka on a football field at halftime, the short distance to the stroller suddenly seeming like a mile or so.

  He got to the stroller and glanced in the direction of the woman. She was still oblivious to him, her attention on her son. The boy’s wailing was giving way to low, heaving sobs as she rocked him in her arms.

  Howard turned to the stroller, stooped down, and tried to yank the baby free. He lifted both baby and stroller off the ground. The kid was strapped in like a goddamn test pilot.

  He put the stroller down and struggled to unfasten the first of two belts holding the baby in place. She stared adoringly at him all the while, whistling and tootling with joy, wondering what kind of fun new game this was.

  Howard whined with panic. His hands kept slipping and fumbling with the strap. Surely the mother would see him any moment now and begin screaming, and she wouldn’t stop screaming until the mounted cop returned, and the cop’s horse would trample Howard into the ground until he looked just like the mushy multicolored remains of the Big Stick. Howard refused to look in the woman’s direction for fear that he would lock eyes with hers in the instant she spotted him, her mouth already flying open in surprise and terror.

  The first strap came loose and Howard started on the other. The baby cooed with glee and offered him a drink from the plastic baby bottle she held clutched in her hand. Howard was whining even louder now, not words, just a continuing wave of terrified, irrational animal sounds. Surely somebody in the park must be watching. Somebody must be aware that a strange man in an overcoat was trying to wrestle a baby out of a stroller.

  He suddenly knew he’d been seen. People were shouting and hollering even now, surrounding him on all sides to beat him to death—he just couldn’t hear the commotion because the blood was pounding too loudly in his ears. He didn’t look up, just kept tearing at the strap, and thought he heard himself scream: NO! STAY AWAY FROM ME! YOU’VE GOT IT ALL WRONG! I’M NOT SOME SICKO PERVERT! I’VE GOT A PERFECTLY GOOD REASON FOR SNATCHING THIS CHILD! I’M A WRITER! I’VE GOT A DEADLINE! JUST LISTEN TO ME, I CAN EXPLAIN!

  The second strap came loose. He yanked the kid from her seat and stuffed her in the Adidas bag, bottle and all. He zipped the bag shut, clutched it to his chest, and stood up to fend off his attackers, to reason with them, to plead with them…

  He was standing alone, unchallenged and unnoticed.

  Well, not completely unnoticed. The pigeons were still giving him shitty looks, but they were the only ones. Everyone else was blithely going about their business. They hadn’t surrounded him, he hadn’t screamed aloud.

  He started stiffly away. He forced himself to walk slowly, willed himself not to run, and each step he took only increased his amazement that he wasn’t being chased.

  He was several blocks away from the park before he realized he’d actually, no-shit, gotten away with it. Scot-free. He started giggling, walking faster and faster until he was prancing and capering along, legs pistoning a mad dance, the Adidas bag swinging in great arcs. Inside the bag, the baby was chortling with delight.

  The baby’s mother had started screaming by then, but Howard was much too far away to hear.

  —

  “Yooo-hoooo! Honeeey, I’m hoooome!”

  No answer. Silence.

  He moved slowly to the bedroom door and
peered in.

  The typewriter sat atop the desk. Waiting.

  Howard entered the room, grinning like a child expecting praise. He held something coyly behind his back, hidden.

  Well? typed the Selectric.

  Howard smiled. A trickle of drool worked its way from the corner of his mouth and stained his chin. He brought the Adidas bag into view and held it up with both hands, a ritual offering. “Sire, the Royal Doggy Bag!” he intoned with great pomp and dignity.

  There better not be a doggy in it.

  Howard looked crestfallen. “No, no, how could you even think such a thing? Would I bring something as unappetizing as a mere doggy for you?” He placed the bag on the cracked leather chair as if depositing a holy relic. “No, sirree, what I have here is downright tasty! Lip-smackin’, finger-lickin’ good!”

  The Selectric strained forward and sniffed, testing the air like a starving hyena.

  I just caught a whiff of human baby scent!

  “Ah, Monsieur has an educated nose, I see. Not two hours ago, I snatched a little rugrat to please your palate. Nothing but the best for Your Lordship.”

  Howard unzipped the bag verrrry slowly, tantalizing the machine with every measured move. The typewriter gave a greedy little shiver.

  Well? C’mon, c’mon, let me have it!

  Howard paused, swiveling his gaze at the IBM with such sudden, deep loathing that the machine actually drew back in fear. “Oh, yeah,” he whispered with a grin that was both fierce and unexpected. “I’ll let you have it, all right.”

  He pulled something from the bag too swiftly for the eye to follow and thrust the object at the typewriter. Somewhere beyond the register of normal hearing, he swore he could hear an inhuman howl of rage and fear rise up.

  What is this? What are you, nuts? clattered the machine.

  “Me? I don’t think so. But I did see a guy earlier today who was. I was on my way home to feed you when I caught sight of him in the mirrored window of a Winchell’s Donuts, and I thought to myself, I oughtta call the cops on that guy. Look at him, he’s got a stolen baby stuffed in a bag, he’s murdered countless cats, and is beyond any shred of doubt mad as a frigging hatter.” Howard drew a long, shuddery breath and let out a sob. “Then I realized the guy was me.”

  What’d you do with my baby, you stupid asshole?

  “I left her in this little church I visited, along with a note. I figure they’ll have her home in time for the evening news.”

  The typewriter cringed back, hissing and spitting at the crucifix Howard held clutched in his fist.

  Get that thing away from me!

  “I’m through pissing around with you, partner!” snarled Howard. “This relationship is hereby severed! Forever and ever, amen!”

  But we have a contract!

  “Funny, I don’t remember signing anything!”

  It was verbal!

  “Yeah? That and a quarter’ll get you the Times!”

  A contract’s a contract!

  “Sue me! There must be plenty of lawyers where you come from!”

  Don’t be hasty! Let’s talk this out!

  “I’m through talking!” cried Howard with a threatening lunge of the crucifix. “Begone, foul thing! Heed me and begone!”

  C’mon, Howie, knock it off, huh? You sound like a third-rate actor doing Shakespeare. Put that thing down, whaddya say?

  Howard noticed the machine stuttering nervously as it wrote. He laughed out loud, a harsh shriek of mirth and fury, and thrust the crucifix closer. “Here’s your Last Supper! Open wide!”

  Get it away!

  “I bet it’s real tasty! Try a little bite! C’mon, for me? Mmmm, nummy nummy…open that hangar, here come the widdle plane!”

  GET IT AWAY! AWAY! AWAAAAAY!

  “If you’re a good boy and clean your plate, I might even give you dessert!” He reached into the Adidas bag and brought out a fistful of holy wafers. The typewriter cowered.

  Is that what I think it is?

  “It ain’t Sara Lee, babe!” cried Howard, and threw the wafers into the carriage housing. The machine’s reaction was unpleasant in the extreme—it gagged and retched and choked, belching puffs of flame and sulfurous smoke.

  “And here’s something to wash it all down with! You’ll like this! It’s a special formula!” Howard yanked the baby bottle out of the bag, aimed it like a weapon, and squeezed. A thin stream of holy water jetted from the rubber nipple and hit the typewriter, eating into the plastic like acid and sending up clouds of hissing steam. This time Howard did hear a howl, most definitely, a distinct wailing somewhere inside his head.

  The demon was screaming.

  IT BURNS! IT BUUURNS! wrote the Selectric. PLEASE! NO MORE! NO MORE!

  “Aw, c’mon, old buddy,” said Howard, waving the crucifix. “You haven’t even started on the main course yet!”

  Please, Howard, please! the Selectric rattled, sputtering and gagging. I can’t eat that! I CAN’T!

  Howard paused, reeling with the picture-perfect clarity of his resolve. It took his breath away. He had never felt so clean in his life, never so right.

  “Then choke on it, motherfucker!” he whispered savagely.

  He thrust the crucifix into the typewriter’s maw, pressing it down into a dark void. A coruscating flash of light tattooed the image of the cross onto his retinas. Jesus Christ Himself, spitting righteous fire, hissed and sputtered in his fist like a branding iron.

  The demon’s scream rose up in Howard’s brain like an air-raid siren, describing unspeakable agony and despair. It was the sound of a million babies dying violently in their cribs, the sound of trainloads of innocents dying in Nazi ovens, the sound of all that is inconceivable and terrifying in the universe.

  “I’M GIVING YOU YOUR WALKING PAPERS, PAL!” roared Howard. “TAKE A HIKE! FUCK OFF! GO STAND IN LINE AT THE UNEMPLOYMENT OFFICE IN HELL!”

  The demon’s wail continued to rise, higher and higher, fear feeding on fear, terror on terror, pain on pain, doubling and redoubling, screeching with jagged glass claws toward a final brain-splitting climax.

  Abruptly, the wail became laughter.

  In the fraction of a heartbeat that followed, Howard knew he’d been had.

  The Selectric’s maw snapped shut with the force of a bear trap, crushing everything up to the wrist with a sickening CHOMP! that sent up a syrupy geyser of blood. Howard tossed his head back in an ecstasy of pain, mouth thrown wide, a Munch painting made flesh, trying to scream. All he could manage was a high, thin whine, like a teakettle on the boil.

  SUCKEERRR! exulted the demon’s voice inside his head between gales of mad laughter.

  Howard tried to pull free, heard muscle and cartilage shred. The typewriter gobbled him to mid-forearm, almost jerking him off his feet, raining a fountain of blood on the walls.

  He tried to grab the bathroom doorjamb with his free hand, but it was just beyond his reach. He strained for it, inch by inch, playing a madman’s tug-of-war with the Selectric, his fingertips actually brushing across the surface of the wood before being jerked away.

  “Oh, God, oh, please, oh, Jesus,” he blubbered, and strained toward the doorjamb again. He got his fingers on the molding and clawed for purchase, digging splintered grooves in the wood, tearing his fingernails back.

  He got a solid grip and held on, knuckles white.

  “Oh, thank you, God, thank you!” he said, sobbing and laughing.

  But then something shot out of the typewriter’s mouth like a huge obscene frog’s tongue, thwacked around his wrist like a bullwhip, and jerked his hand free.

  The jaws snapped again, chewing both arms now, gobbling them up to the elbows in a crimson froth, jerking him forward so hard he slammed into the desk. The pain was electric, pristine, beyond any pain he’d ever imagined. He arched back, head whipsawing from side to side as if to deny that his arms were being eaten while Lucius’s voice gibbered insanely in his head: Guess what’s on the menu tonight, Howie, old sprout, old pal of
mine? Why, it’s you, buddy boy, IT’S YOU!

  Another slimy tentacle shot forth and twined around his neck, pulling him closer to his doom. Hot carrion breath washed into his face, a reeking charnel-house stench that made his eyes shrivel in their sockets. Brimstone spittle flew, etching his flesh like acid. The jaws kept chewing and tearing, relentless.

  Howard was yanked in up to his shoulders, his face cracking against the hard plastic of the typewriter. A thick eruption of blood gushed past his face and splashed warm and wet across his back. A detached, analytical part of him wondered if this was what getting caught in a thresher was like.

  He finally found his voice and screamed.

  The Selectric grinned, displaying hundreds of bloody, razor-sharp piranha teeth mere inches from Howard’s face. The maw began to widen for another bite, and Howard knew this time it would be his head, all of it, a tasty sweetmeat for the typewriter to munch munch munch the night away.

  “Well, at least the book will be finished,” he moaned.

  That suddenly struck him as damn funny, and he began braying and whooping with laughter.

  He was still laughing when there came a horrible CRUNCH!

  —

  That the completed manuscript of Walpuski’s third book was discovered drenched with what was apparently the author’s own blood proved to be a huge boon for the publisher. The book was released with its cover depicting splattered blood on a field of butcher paper. That was it—no title, no author, just splattered blood.

  It outsold the first two books combined.

  There were those who theorized that Howard Walpuski had faked his own death and disappeared for mysterious reasons of his own, like Elvis. Some were convinced that a psychotic fan had murdered him and absconded with the body. Others felt that a group of crazed cultists were responsible. Jerry Falwell, preaching to his devoted viewership, insisted that God Himself had fed Walpuski to a horde of rats for writing all that pernicious, despicable, Satan-loving pornography (none of which Falwell had ever actually read, but he didn’t have to wallow in filth to know it when he saw it). The National Enquirer wrote that Walpuski spontaneously exploded after contracting AIDS from a necrophilous romance with a certain dead homosexual movie star.