Christmas Trees & Monkeys Read online

  Christmas Trees and Monkeys

  (Collected Horror Stories, Volume 1)

  by

  Daniel G. Keohane

  A new edition with a revised introduction published by

  Necon Ebooks

  Revised Edition Copyright 2010 Daniel G. Keohane

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The stories contained herein, including names, characters and places, are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  — — — — —

  Dedication

  This edition is dedicated to Andrew, Amanda and Audrey, for your love and undying enthusiasm for Dad’s creepy little sideline.

  As before, a special dedication to my sister Anne Murphy, who has wrestled with the challenge of Multiple Sclerosis this past decade. Your strength and tenacity is an inspiration to so many people.

  — — — — —

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  about Incineration

  Incineration

  about AM

  AM

  about The Monkey on the Towers

  The Monkey on the Towers

  about Feed the Birds

  Feed the Birds

  about The Doll Wagon

  The Doll Wagon

  about Redemption

  Redemption

  about Ptolemy

  Ptolemy

  about Y2 Kay

  Y2Kay

  about Ritual

  Ritual

  about White Wave of Mercy

  White Wave of Mercy

  about Bark

  Bark

  about Lavish

  Lavish

  about The Storm of Generations

  The Storm of Generations

  about Two Fish to Feed the Masses

  Two Fish to Feed the Masses

  about Tanner’s Bomb

  Tanner’s Bomb

  End

  — — — — —

  Acknowledgements

  There have been many people with me along this strange and twisted path and I’d like to thank you all, but as this collection was originally put together eight years ago, I’ll have to stick to the highlights.

  I thank God, of course, for allowing me this life and the people in it who have given me so much love and support over the years, and for blessing me with some semblance of talent to do this writing thing in the first place.

  Mom and Dad, aka Marilyn and Joe Keohane, who gave me life, then saved it on more than one occasion. For their unconditional love and acceptance of their brooding scribe of a son.

  Janet, my first reader for these early stories as I struggled to find my voice and who kept me honest with her critiques when they arrived fresh from the oven of my brain.

  Fran Bellerive, for your red (and blue and purple and...) pen. Its markings have made all the difference over the years in how these stories have come out. Thank you, thank you.

  For all those who have taken their turns at the critique wheel for one or more of the stories herein, including Mark Lowell, Paul Tremblay and Stephen Dorato (I’m sure I’ve missed someone and if so I apologize).

  Editors June Hubbard, Terry West, Seth Lindberg, S. Kay Elmore, Janice Kirkwood, Tracy Martin, Ed McFadden, Diana Sharples, James Rasmussen, Suzanne Donahue, Stefano Donati, Mario Kivistik, Brian Keene, Brian A. Hopkins and John Amen, for saying “yes” to the batch of stories inside here.

  To my family, friends and every reader who has taken the time to read my stuff and perhaps enjoyed a little of it. A writer’s work is a solitary endeavor, and we spend way too much time in our own heads. Once the story’s done it belongs to you, however. I pray I never lose sight of that.

  And finally, to the Booth family, Matt Bechtel and the rest of the gang at Necon EBooks, not only for putting on one of the best cons in existence, but for being interested in this little collection of mine for their publishing venture.

  — — — — —

  Chronology

  “Incineration” © 1999, originally appeared in the Cemetery Sonata

  “AM” © 1999, originally appeared in Bonetree, later in Cemetery Sonata II

  “The Monkey on the Towers” © 1999, originally appeared in The Orphic Chronicle

  “The Doll Wagon” © 2001, originally appeared in Poddities: A Creative Tribute to Jack Finney’s The Body Snatchers

  “Ptolemy” © 2000, originally appeared in Electric Wine

  “Y2 Kay” © 1999, originally appeared in Gothic.Net

  “White Wave of Mercy” © 2002, originally appeared in the Extremes 4: Darkest Africa

  “Lavish” © 2000, originally appeared in Fantastic Stories of the Imagination

  “The Storm of Generations” © 2001, originally appeared in The Pedestal Magazine

  “Tanner’s Bomb” © 1999, originally appeared in Gothic.Net

  “Ritual”, “Redemption”, “Bark” and “Two Fish to Feed the Masses”, © 2002, made their debut in this collection. Be gentle with them, they’re young... OK, maybe “Redemption” is getting on in years, but I’ll save that for the story’s introduction. ...

  — — — — —

  Introduction

  (updated for the ebook edition)

  I’d like to take a moment to thank you for spending your hard-earned dollars for this, the long-awaited eBook edition of my first collection of short stories. Most of what you’ll soon read have been published a few years ago in a wide range of publications, from magazines to webzines to anthologies. A few were newly written when the print edition of Christmas Trees & Monkeys was originally released, seeing print for the first time. I hope that while you’re in here you enjoy yourself.

  Before each story I take a few moments to explain how I came up with the idea, and offer a fact or two that I think you might find interesting, and maybe a fact or two you could have done without. “Too much information, Dan” is common phrase in my life. I tried to make them enjoyable, and offer a quick insight into the process I sometimes go through in creating these short stories. There are no spoilers in the introductions, I promise — read them before diving into each story and don’t worry that I might give away the ending.

  As with the print edition, 100 percent of all author royalties earned from the sale of this collection are being donated to the New England Multiple Sclerosis Society, in honor of my sister Anne. I figured I already got paid for most of these stories, anyway, so may as well let someone else benefit from them now – aside from you, dear readers. 

  That’s about it. Enough of this bantering about. Have a good time, and let me know what you think. I’d love to hear from you. And again, thanks for reading.

  Dan

  — — — — —

  About “Incineration”

  It seems fitting that I open the collection with my first published story. After a few years getting my fingers wet with fiction-writing, I stopped. Three children, two jobs and a new house later, I returned to the keyboard. After writing a few stories (two of which are in this collection), I decided to look back through my old notebook to see if there were any gems left unrealized from my hiatus. There, I found the opening (two or three paragraphs, hand-written), of a story called “Incineration.” These were the last three paragraphs of fiction I’d written before hanging up the s
moking jacket and pipe for a time. I never forgot the story. It resurfaced in my frenzied brain at odd times. I let it play itself through for fun, only to mentally file it away for another day.

  Newly inspired, one day I wrote the story out beginning to end. Not much changed from what was in my head all those years. Around that time I’d joined a professional organization for writers called the Horror Writers Association. In the HWA’s first newsletter, I discovered a plethora of market listings specializing in horror. Magazines and anthologies which never saw even a one-liner in tomes like Writer’s Market (and this was before such websites as the amazing Ralan.com were in existence). One of these markets was an anthology called Cemetery Sonata, edited by June Hubbard.

  Well, “Incineration” takes place in a crematorium, so I thought, why not? I sent it off via email and waited. A couple of month’s later Ms. Hubbard, God bless her, said she’d buy it. So I soon had thirty-six dollars in my pocket and my very first fiction sale.

  Now, they say women forget a lot of the physical pain experienced in child birth. If they didn’t, they’d stop having children after the first, and our planet would be under populated and primed for invasion by alien races who are just too damned intimidated to attack us because there’s so many of us hanging around. That’s what they say, anyway. Similarly, writers forget all of their dozens (or hundreds) of rejections with that one acceptance. If we didn’t, we’d stop writing, and Mr. And Mrs. John Q America would miss out on a lot of creepy stuff, like the following story....

  Incineration

  The top half of the casket’s lid stood open. Patrick, in his quiet terror, began to calculate how he would maneuver himself beside Mister Benchman’s body without touching it. A new wave of nausea rolled over him.

  Patrick, Kenny and Kenny’s best friend Jacob crouched in the grass. The rectangle of yellow light from the basement window was like a camp fire between them. Above the boys, the remnants of the summer day burned away into evening. A thick humid blackness fell around them. They watched the old man approach the coffin, close the lid and twist the ornate brass latch.

  Jacob whispered. “Don’t worry. You can still get in. The latch won’t lock. Just turn it and lift.”

  Patrick swallowed, wondering again what he was trying to prove. That the son of the town’s Baptist preacher wasn’t just another wimpy Jesus-lover? That a wimpy Jesus-lover can die as easily as anyone? His father would kill him if he found out. Beat his devil-possessed son to death with one of those massive bibles he preached from. Not for the first time, Patrick decided to get up and leave. Tell Jacob and Kenny to find someone else to jerk around with this stupid dare.

  Someone with more guts. He sighed quietly and waited.

  The old man stood by the large oven doors, tinkering with a faucet then various switches. He looked to Patrick like a mad scientist from an old black and white movie.

  Jacob was moving way too much. He said, “OK. Get ready, Bible Boy.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Once he fires this sucker up, he’ll leave the room while it gets cranking. I’ve seen it a hundred times. He’ll be gone for five minutes. Maybe more.”

  The old man flipped a switch. The darkness beyond the doors exploded in a brilliant flash of light. Patrick closed his eyes. A minute later Jacob slapped him on the back. “OK, he’s out. Let’s go.”

  The casket was closed. Behind the windows in the furnace doors, fire danced like a thousand burning fingers. Kenny, who had said nothing since they left on their bikes from Jacob’s house, moved his heavy frame into the square of light. He slid a piece of aluminum along the edge of the window. Something clicked. He lifted the sash and propped it open with the jimmy.

  Patrick looked at Jacob. “You never did this.”

  Jacob glared back at him. “Damn right, I have. Twice. Don’t chicken out on me now, or everyone’s gonna hear about it.”

  “I’m not chickening out. I just don’t think you ever did it.” Laying face-down on the grass, Patrick shimmied backwards. His legs dangled over nothing for a moment, then his toes touched the concrete floor. The faces of Jacob and Kenny hung ghostlike in the window. Darkness beyond them. Patrick let go of the sill.

  The room smelled like the science lab at school. Chemicals, Bunsen burners. Looking around, there wasn’t much to see besides a desk, four folding chairs, and the coffin. He’d better get this over with before the old man came back and pushed it into the oven with him inside. Patrick thought of being trapped, burned alive with the corpse of Mister Benchman. He walked toward the coffin.

  The latch turned easily. Patrick lifted the upper lid. The head of Mister Benchman did not turn towards him with an evil grimace, as he’d half-expected. The sunken face was covered in too much makeup. The storekeeper didn’t look right. Where was the smile? Whenever Patrick and his father came into Selver’s Variety the man always had a smile.

  The platform was metal mesh wrapped around rollers. He gave the coffin a shove to make sure it wouldn’t roll against the furnace doors. It didn’t. It sat low to the floor. Patrick had no problem climbing up alongside. He remembered the last time he saw this man alive. When his father had gone back to the cooler for a forgotten jug of milk, Mister Benchman handed Patrick a Three Musketeers candy bar. The boy immediately had shoved the treat deep into his windbreaker’s pocket, prayed his father hadn’t seen it. Candy was forbidden in their world; both Patrick and Mister Benchman knew that. The storekeeper simply smiled as usual, never letting on to this dark new secret as the preacher returned with the milk. That was one month ago, and Patrick only garnered enough courage to eat the damned Three Musketeers three days ago. That was the day he heard Mister Benchman was dead.

  He worked his left leg into the coffin, wincing in reaction to the stiff, papery feel of the man’s leg. There was no way he’d get in there without touching the guy.

  “Hurry up, you idiot.” Jacob’s head poked into the room. “He’ll be back in three minutes.” Patrick wondered how Jacob was keeping such precise time, since none of them wore a watch.

  “You just make sure you throw the pebble when a minute’s up.”

  “Two minutes.”

  “One minute. I’m not getting caught by that old guy.”

  “Whatever! Just do it.”

  Patrick sat on the edge and put his other foot inside the coffin. He looked up.

  “Show me the pebble.”

  Jacob was about to say something, thought better of it, then reached into his pants’ pocket. He held the pebble between two fingers. Patrick turned away from the window, trying not to look disappointed.

  The coffin was uncomfortable. Under the frills and satin sheet was nothing more than the wooden bottom. No cushions, no soft down bedding. Patrick pushed his way over the curls of the sheets. His eyes blinked away sweat.

  “Close the lid.” From the window, Jacob’s voice sounded breathy, like he’d been running. “Close it. Close it.”

  Patrick slowly reached over the dead man and grabbed the inside of the lid. The move brought his face too close to Mister Benchman. Vomit wormed its way into the boy’s throat. He closed the lid as fast as he could, turned his head away and threw up. It splattered across his shoulder. The acidic smell filled the cramped interior, intensified by the increasing heat of the oven. In the coffin’s complete blackness, facing away from the wooden figure beside him, Patrick felt an urge to cry.

  Instead, he counted. One. Two. Three. His tongue tasted sour, as if he’d drunk a glass of bad milk. This mental image sent more vomit against the coffin’s wall. Patrick spit out a chunk of something caught in his cheek. Don’t think about anything, he thought. Just wait for the pebble.

  The sound of the basement door opening was muffled from inside his tomb, but Patrick knew instantly that he had lost. The old man was back.

  * * *

  Moments earlier, Jacob watched Patrick lean over the dead man and close the lid. He tried to swallow, but his mouth couldn’t work up any spit. Once
the coffin was closed, Jacob shifted his position until he lay belly-down on the grass. He had to. The erection in his jeans made crouching too uncomfortable. Since a few months after his twelfth birthday, this had become a new twist in his life. This time, it was not received with the terror and embarrassment he’d suffer in the middle of Miss Monroe’s Social Studies class. This time it felt right. Jacob’s stomach tightened at the thought of Patrick laying alone with the corpse, and the fact that he had no intention of tossing the pebble. He stared at the flames licking each other behind the furnace windows. His arousal intensified.

  “Come on, man,” Kenny said, leaning back on his haunches. “This is just too sick. Throw the rock so we can get the hell out of here.”

  For as long as the two boys were old enough to cross the street, they had been each other’s only friend. This may have been because they were the only kids their age on that end of Washington Street. More likely it was because their mutual obsession with all things macabre alienated them from the rest of their classmates. Last Thursday, Kenny brought Patrick into their fold. Now, he couldn’t help thinking that Jacob concocted this scheme just to scare away the threat Patrick presented to their long-standing twosome.