Horror Stories Part 37

"Mom's full of s.h.i.t."

Booster wrote 'animosity towards mother' in his pad.

"Why do you say that, Tyler? Your mother is the one who recommended therapy, isn't she? It seems as if she wants to help."

"She's not my real mother. Her and Dad were replaced by aliens."

"Aliens?"

"They killed my parents, replaced them with duplicates. They look and sound the same, but they're actually from another planet. I caught them, once, in their bedroom."

Booster raised an eyebrow. "Making love?"

"Contacting the mother ship. They're planning a full scale invasion of earth. But I thought you wanted to know about the werewolf."

Booster pursed his lips. WWSFD? He appealed to the picture of Sigmund hanging above the fireplace. The picture offered no answers.

"Tyler, with your consent, I'd like to try some hypnotherapy. Have you ever been hypnotized?"

"No."

Booster dimmed the lights and sat alongside the couch. He held his pencil in front of Tyler's face at eye level.

"Take a deep breath, then let it out. Focus on the pencil..."

It took a few minutes to bring Tyler to a state of susceptible relaxation.

"Can you hear me, Tyler?"

"Yes."

The boy's jaw was slack, and a thin line of drool escaped the corner of his mouth. Booster was surprised at the child's halitosis - perhaps he had been eating squirrels after all.

"I'd like you to remember back a few weeks, when you told me about burying Crazy Harold."

"Okay."

"Tell me what you see."

"It's cold. There are a lot of rocks in the dirt, and the shovel won't go in very far."

Booster used his pen light to check Tyler's pupils. Slow response. The child was under.

"What were you digging?"

"Grave. For the vampire."

Booster frowned. He'd studied cases of patients lying under hypnosis, but had never had one on his couch.

"What about the werewolf?"

"Came out of the field. It was big, had red eyes, walked on two legs."

"And it bit you?"

"Yeah. I thought it was going to kill me, but Runs Like Stallion saved me."

"Runs Like Stallion?"

"He's a ghost of a Sioux brave. The field is an old Indian burial ground."

Booster decided he'd had enough. He wrote 'treatment' in his notebook and went over to his desk, unlocking the top drawer. The plastic case practically leapt up at him. He took it over to Tyler.

"Tyler, your parents are tired of these stories."

"My parents are dead."

"No, Tyler. They aren't dead. They care about you. That's why they brought you to me."

Booster opened the case. The gnerlock blinked its three eyes and crawled into Booster's hand. It would enter Tyler's mouth and burrow up into his brain, taking over his body.

"Soon, it will all be better. You'll have no more worries. You're going to be a host, Tyler, for the new dominant species on this planet. Are you scared?"

"No."

"Open your mouth, Tyler."

Tyler stretched his mouth wide.

Wider than humanly possible, crammed with sharp teeth.

The gnerlock nesting in Dr. Booster's brain crawled out through his neck after the wolf decapitated the host body.

Its eleven legs beelined for the door, antennae waving hysterically, telepathically cursing that quack Freud.

Halfway there, a green ghostly foot came down on its oblong head, smashing it into the carpeting.

The Indian gave the wolf a thumbs up, but Tyler was already leaping out the window, eyes locked on a juicy squirrel in the gra.s.s below.

It's no secret I'm a huge F. Paul Wilson fan. When we were both invited into the Blood Lite anthology, I asked him if he would like to collaborate on a funny horror short. He graciously agreed, and we produced this slapstick bit of schtick. It was a lot of fun to write.

"We're dead! We're freakin' dead!"

Mick Brady, known by the criminal underground of Arkham, Pennsylvania as "Mick the Mick," held a shaking fist in front of Willie Corrigan's face. Willie recoiled like a dog accustomed to being kicked.

"I'm sorry, Mick!"

Mick the Mick raised his arm and realized that smacking Willie wasn't going to help their situation. He smacked him anyway, a punch to the gut that made the larger man double over and grunt like a pig.

"Jesus, Mick! You hit me in my hernia! You know I got a bulge there!"

Mick the Mick grabbed a shock of Willie's greasy brown hair and jerked back his head so they were staring eye-to-eye.

"What do you think Nate the Nose is going to do to us when he finds out we lost his s.h.i.t? We're both going to be eating San Francisco Hot Dogs, Willie."

Willie's eyes got wide. Apparently the idea of having his d.i.c.k cut off, boiled, and fed to him on a bun with a side of fries was several times worse than a whack to the hernia.

"We'll...we'll tell him the truth. Maybe he'll understand."

"You want to tell the biggest mobster in the state that your Nana used a key of uncut Columbian to make a pound cake?"

"It was an accident," Willie whined. "She thought it was flour. Hey, is that a spider on the wall? Spiders give me the creeps, Mick. Why do they need eight legs? Other bugs only got six."

Mick the Mick realized that hitting Willie again wouldn't help anything. He hit him anyway, a slap across his face that echoed off the concrete floor and walls of Willie's bas.e.m.e.nt.

"Jesus, Mick! You hit me in my bad tooth! You know I got a cavity there!"

Mick the Mick was considering where he would belt his friend next, even though it wasn't doing either of them any good, when he heard the bas.e.m.e.nt door open.

"You boys playing nice down there?"

"Yes, Nana," Willie called up the stairs. He nudged Mick the Mick and whispered, "Tell Nana yes."

Mick the Mick rolled his eyes, but managed to say, "Yes, Nana."

"Would you like some pound cake? It didn't turn out very well for some reason, but Bruno seems to like it."

Bruno was Willie's dog, an elderly beagle. He tore down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs, ran eighteen quick laps around Mick the Mick and Willie, and then barreled, full-speed, face-first into the wall, knocking himself out. Mick the Mick watched as the dog's tiny chest rose and fell with the speed of a weed wacker.

"No thanks, Nana," Mick the Mick said.

"It's on the counter, if you want any. Good night, boys."

"Night, Nana," they answered in unison.

Mick the Mick wondered how the h.e.l.l they could get out of this mess. Maybe there was some way to separate the c.o.ke from the cake, using chemicals and stuff. But they wouldn't be able to do it themselves. That meant telling Nate the Nose, which meant San Francisco Hot Dogs. In his twenty-four years since birth, Mick the Mick had grown very attached to his p.e.n.i.s. He'd miss it something awful.

"We could sell the cake," Willie said.

"You think someone is going to pay sixty thousand bucks for a pound cake?"

"It's just an idea."

"It's a stupid idea, Willie. No junkie is going to snort baked goods. Ain't gonna happen."

"So what should we do? I - hey, did you hear if the Phillies won? Phillies got more legs than a spider. And you know what? They catch flies too! That's a joke, Mick."

"Shaddup. I need to think."

Mick the Mick couldn't think of anything, so he punched Willie again, even though it didn't solve anything.

"Jesus, Mick! You hit my kidney! You know I got a stone there!"

Mick the Mick walked away, rubbing his temples, willing an idea to come.

"That one really hurt, Mick."

Mick the Mick shushed him.

"I mean it. I'm gonna be p.i.s.sing red for a week."

"Quiet, Willie. Lemme think."

"It looks like cherry Kool-Aid. And it burns, Mick. Burns like fire."

Mick the Mick snapped his fingers. Fire.

"That's it, Willie. Fire. Your house is insured, right?"

"I guess so. Hey, do you think there's any pizza left? I like pepperoni. That's a fun word to say. Pepperoni. It rhymes with lonely. You think pepperoni gets lonely, Mick?"

To help Willie focus, Mick the Mick kicked him in his b.u.m leg, even though it really didn't help him focus much.

"Jesus, Mick! You know I got gout!"

"Pay attention, Willie. We burn down the house, collect the insurance, and pay off Nate the Nose."

Willie rubbed his shin, wincing.

"But where's Nana supposed to live, Mick?"

"I hear the Miskatonic Nursing Home is a lot nicer, now that they arrested the guy who was making all the old people wear dog collars."

"I can't put Nana in a nursing home, Mick!"

"Would you rather be munching on your vein sausage? Nate the Nose makes you eat the whole thing, or else you also get served a side of meatb.a.l.l.s."

Willie folded his arms. "I won't do it. And I won't let you do it."

Mick the Mick took aim and punched Willie in his bad knee, where he had the metal pins, even though it did nothing to fix their problem.

"Jesus, Mick! You hit me in the..."

"Woof!"

Bruno the beagle sprang to his feet, ran sixteen laps around the men, then tore up the stairs.

"Bruno!" they heard Nana chide. "Get off the counter! You've had enough pound cake!"