Harlan County Horrors Read online

  I used to tell myself that I didn't want to confront my father, but right now I feel eager, desperate.

  And I don't know if I want to hug him or kill him.

  Probably the latter.

  But I don't find out, because he's not one of the men.

  As I sit there, watching them shake and jerk in agony, I begin to feel a faint cramp in my chest.

  Empathy.

  I feel sorry for these insurrectionary bastards, when I can't even muster the same sentiment for my own missing family.

  There must be something truly wrong with me.

  "You deserve this," I whisper.

  These people are political prisoners of the worst kind. And if the Guardians didn't force these traitors onto the anomalies, the unhampered energy would erupt and find another human body to bind with. Man, woman, or child.

  The energy doesn't discriminate.

  So if someone has to suffer, better the guilty than the innocent.

  Better them than me.

  According to Warden Rose, criminals are like coal. If you press them hard enough, they'll eventually become diamonds. But once in a great while, the Guardians find themselves clashing with an unfortunate soul beyond help, beyond hope.

  Hunter Hill is one such devil.

  "I can't give you back your family," the warden says. "But I can give you Hunter."

  So about thirty minutes later, I'm underground, in a white room, holding the warden's gift.

  Hunter struggles against the ropes.

  Useless.

  I let out a primal roar, and judging by Hunter's expression, I'm a monster in his altered vision.

  A monster with black matted fur and metallic fangs.

  Just like the warden promised.

  "Beg," I say. "Beg for your life."

  Hunter trembles. "I ain't playin' your games no more, Rose."

  "I'm not the warden."

  "Whoever. Just do what you come to do and let me back in my cage."

  "You're not going anywhere until you beg."

  "No."

  I growl and slash his face with my claw.

  "Fuck you, Rose," Hunter says.

  "My name is Samson Carter," I say.

  "Don't ring no bells."

  "You killed my family." I take the gun out of my pocket.

  And how this looks to Hunter, I don't know. Maybe I'm ripping the weapon out of my flesh.

  "I knowed you was Rose," Hunter says.

  "Will you stop saying that?" I say. "I'm Samson Carter."

  "You got the warden's gun."

  "He let me borrow it."

  "Nah, you'd never let anybody touch your pistol."

  After a deep breath, I point the gun at his face. "You killed my family, and now you're going to die."

  "I ain't no killer. That's why I got sent here in the first place."

  "Shut up." I cock the hammer.

  A tear rolls down the bastard's cheek, and he closes his eyes. "Goodbye, Earl."

  I lower the gun. "Who's Earl?"

  "I weren't talkin' to you."

  Again, I point the gun between his eyes. "Who's Earl?"

  "A better man than you."

  And I consider pressing the matter further, because I see love and respect for this man swarming in Hunter's eyes. And if this Earl is a prisoner in this facility, maybe I could torture him in front of Hunter.

  The warden would probably permit me that right.

  But I'm feeling more than a little tired.

  So I pull the trigger.

  And Hunter's skull bursts with fall colors, dazzling my eyes.

  I laugh.

  Then metallic fangs gnaw on my innards, and I double over and vomit.

  I've killed men like Hunter many times before.

  But somehow, this feels different.

  I feel different.

  And maybe the warden was wrong about me.

  Maybe I'm not brokenhearted.

  Maybe I'm just broken.

  I try to stand, fail.

  The audience laughs.

  I'm in a cave, and Guardians fill the amphitheater risers, and Warden Rose approaches me, smiling.

  "What am I doing here?" I say.

  "You're here for the show," the warden says. "You're going to entertain us with your comedy."

  "What?"

  Warden Rose helps me to my feet, then points his pistol at my face. "Get on your knees."

  I obey.

  "Beg for mercy," he says.

  "Why are you---"

  "Beg!"

  "Please. Don't shoot me."

  "You can do better than that."

  I force my hands together. "Don't shoot me!"

  The Guardians laugh.

  Warden Rose lowers his weapon and smirks. "You're pathetic. You know that, don't you?"

  I don't move a muscle.

  "I asked you a question, Earl," the warden says, looking right at me.

  "What?" I say.

  "I said you know you're pathetic, don't you, Earl?"

  I don't know why he's calling me that, but I nod anyway. "Yes."

  "Good. Now we can start the second act." He presses a button on a remote.

  And my mind surges with fear, and I imagine my body filled with TNT.

  But, of course, I don't explode.

  Instead, my Filter hums and drops off the back of my head.

  "I have some questions for you," the warden says. "They should be easy enough for intelligent young man such as yourself. Are you ready?"

  "Yes," I say, because he's still holding the gun.

  "Who are you?"

  "Samson Carter."

  "Wrong." And he shoots my leg.

  I collapse, screaming.

  The audience cheers.

  "Let's try that again." The warden points his gun at my other leg. "What's your name?"

  But I don't answer, consumed by my hatred for this man.

  "Hurry now," the warden says. "Before your time runs out. What's your name?"

  "Earl," I say.

  The warden nods. "Now tell me the names of your wife and son."

  I grasp at shadows. "I don't know."

  And in fact, I don't think I ever knew.

  "One last question, Earl," the warden says. "What's your last name?"

  I open my mouth to say, "Carter."

  Then the fog clears.

  And I know myself again.

  "Hill," I say.

  That's the right answer, but he shoots my leg anyway.

  Just like I knowed he would.

  "Enough questions." The bastard points at a space behind me. "Let's begin act three."

  I look back.

  And John Miller, the curator, winks at me, standin' beside a small glass box.

  "Fuck you, Miller," I say, and turn back. "Fuck you, Rose."

  Rose chuckles, then flicks his hand. "Put him in."

  I struggle against his foot soldiers.

  Useless.

  So they get to work.

  And I think about what they done to me.

  Raped my mind with their fuckin' machine.

  Made me act like 'em.

  Think like 'em.

  Even tricked me into killin' the man I love.

  I shake and jerk with sorrow.

  And when they're done with me, I'm naked, trapped in a much smaller cage than I'm used to, tubes jammed in my holes and flesh.

  Rose faces his men.

  Gives a big thumbs up.

  Applause, applause, applause.

  I thought I knowed every nook and cranny in these fuckin' mines, but this here room is new. And I thought Angelica was dead, but there's her rabbit tattoo on the squashed body in front of me. I reckon there's at least a hundred men and women boxed up in here, stacked on a giant circle of black stone.

  And I know Rose wants to keep us here for the rest of our lives.

  Because we're troublemakers, the whole lot of us.

  Unfortunate souls deemed beyond help, beyond hope.

&nb
sp; I added my name to Rose's shit list the day I escaped the mines. I knowed I wouldn't get far, of course, but I wanted a victory. Even a small one.

  And after I broke out, I had just enough time to write on that log.

  THE MONSTER IS INSIDE.

  I reckon Rose thinks I'm referrin' to him in that message, callin' him a monster for all the fucked up stuff he's done.

  But that ain't it.

  The monster's inside me. Inside all us captives.

  Rose and his men don't know that, of course. They don't know nothin' about the monster and the so-called anomalies.

  They don't know the anguish we feel with this energy gushin' inside.

  They don't know how eventually, if we remain in this state long enough, we transcend the pain.

  And when that happens, a monster transcends the earth.

  And fills us.

  Sure, the beast don't have black matted fur and metallic fangs.

  But she's dangerous.

  And as her electric fingers caress the curves of my tormented body, trying to work her way inside me, I think about my childhood hell. With walls and guns and sentinels. Even then, I knowed hell was a prison built to keep certain folks out of heaven.

  I was a smart kid.

  And in my hopeful mind, I imagined myself breakin' my mama out of hell, and takin' her to a cabin in the woods where we could live in peace.

  Back then, my mama was the world to me. Even after she died.

  Sure, I knowed she was a traitor. I knowed she defied the will of the government. And I knowed she was the worst kind of woman, because that's what my foster parents told me. But that only made me love her more.

  I loved her, and when I growed older, I did everything I could to honor her memory.

  So when my government demanded that I fight in their war, I refused.

  They throwed me in prison, and I'm sure they reckon I'm a coward. But what they don't understand is that I'm a warrior at heart.

  And one day, the monster, she'll grow strong enough to free us from these cages.

  And then the war will finally begin.

  "Trouble Among the Yearlings"

  Maurice Broaddus

  Maurice Broaddus works as an environmental toxicologist by day, a horror writer by night, and a lay leader at The Dwelling Place, a faith community in Indianapolis, Indiana. He is a notorious egotist who, in anticipation of a successful writing career, is practicing speaking of himself in the third person. His stories have appeared in dozens of markets (from Weird Tales Magazine to the Dark Dreams anthologies to Horror Literature Quarterly to Apex Magazine), but it should be noted that he only wants to get famous enough to be able to snub people at horror conventions. His novellas include Orgy of Souls, co-written with Wrath James White (Apex Books), and Devil's Marionette (Shroud Publishing). Visit his site so he can bore you with details of all things him at mauricebroaddus.com. Most importantly, read his blog. He loves that. A lot.

  Ernest Mayfield raced across the bridge toward home, his world little more than a jagged scar in need of suturing. Weathered hands had hammered the narrow stretch of rotting planks together years ago; now they were crisscrossed with newer boards. He ran along the central beams placed on top in presumed reinforcement, despite his pain and limp. His footfalls echoed along the scored wood like a palpated heart.

  He slowed as he approached a rabbit warren of a home. Corrugated tin roofed a wood-framed hovel, its logs cut, hewn, notched, and stacked. Kudzu vine snaked along its side and threatened to digest the entire structure. A string of gourd birdhouses dangled from a pole. A little girl clad in a flower print Sunday school dress paced the wooden porch in her bare feet, oblivious to the melody of the wind chime overhead and Ernest's nearing. Her eyes never met his; her attention was on her doll. Its large eyes fluttered noisily and its large bald head gave it an alien aspect. Dirt-tinged fingerprints smudged its color to a dull grey. Behind her, an older woman rocked gently in a chair.

  "What'cha doing, Ms. Clark?"

  "Sittin' around watching the hippercrits." Minnie Clark's wet black hair guarded a sunken face. Wizened arms, deceptively strong as many a whupping had taught him, waved him over. Her breasts hung like apples in the bottom of a gunny sack. A long gunny sack. "I need to get the grass cut before it starts raining."

  "Ain't a cloud in the sky."

  "It's gonna rain tomorrow and we got a church meeting tonight." Minnie let the last plume of smoke escape her lips as she studied him. "So what happened?"

  "Me and Uncle Russell had gone fishing up at Bob's Creek."

  "No school?"

  "There's little point in going to school anymore, not for me." Ernest slouched, hands in his pockets. His shoe dug into the dirt and overturned a rock.

  "Oh, I see."

  "Anyway, we'd just settled down into our favorite spot and cast our lines when we noticed an odd stink."

  "It always smells odd 'round these parts." Minnie sucked her teeth.

  "Yeah, but this was like moldy game. So we got up to check it out. The odor got worse behind this bend in the creek where the water pools a little deeper. When we stooped down, this body bobbed up. Half of its head was chewed away. It was bloated and swollen, like a big leech with blood still oozing down its face..." his voice trailed for a moment while he squirreled together another reserve of composure. "It stared at us with its one good eye. I swear it looked like it was grinnin' at us."

  "Who was it?"

  "Don't know."

  "Couldn't be from around here, then. What'd you do after that?"

  "We ran. Twisted my ankle somethin' fierce. Didn't want to go straight home on it."

  "And your uncle?"

  "He went home."

  "And you left the body? I wonder if we should call the sheriff."

  "Yes ma'am...I mean, no ma'am."

  "You know what I think? I think you and your daddy's fool brother got to playin' too rough, you hurt your ankle and your belly got to grumblin' and it was all the excuse you needed to stop here." Minnie stood up, revealing a picture of Jesus on her faded T-shirt, and tossed a cigarette butt into a thatch of dirt. "You boys and your fool notions. Look at you. Chest all puffed out without an idea of where to go. There is real darkness in the world we have to guard against. No sense conjurin' up some for no good reason. Come on inside."

  The thick door clattered shut, the lock busted; not that it mattered: the home was long past caring if anyone robbed it. Swatches of paint, lacquer scabs of corrosion, flaked away. Patterned with a swirl of feathers, the curtains covered windows whose glass didn't quite fit. Minnie cast her eyes about for a place to sit, obviously self-conscious of how much stuff cluttered up her home. Plaster praying hands clasped toward the heavens beseeching an unseen God sat above the doorframe. Jugs of drinking water gathered in parade formation along the floor. Yellowed newspapers were stacked in the corner. Jars of preserves lined the shelves alongside oil lamps. A beautiful fanned-out turkey tail was mounted on the wall. She lit up another cigarette and sank into her couch, whose inner sponge burst through the threadbare material.

  "You gonna call a doctor?" A flicker of fear underscored his thin, tremulous voice.

  "You see a hospital around here? You doctor yourself or go without."

  He winced when she grabbed his ankle. "It hurts."

  "Have a shot of physic." Minnie poured a couple of tablespoons worth of a clear liquid from a Ball jar into a metal coffee cup.

  He sniffed at the moonshine and offered a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

  "It's either that or I hit you upside the head and tell you to hush up."

  Ernest downed the liquid the same way he took cod liver oil: he pinched his nose and tossed it back to have as much of it as possible bypass his tongue. The liquor burned his throat, and an unbidden gasp gave way to a flood of coughs.

  "That hit the spot." Tears welled in his eyes; his face flushed to a mild red.

  "You taking to the mines tomorrow?"

  "Yes, ma'am
."

  "Won't be your ankle ailin' you 'fore too long."

  Minnie's father had died of died pneumonia when she was a young girl. Since then, she'd become a true root woman. Gesturing for Ernest to lie back and pull up his shirt, she lit a candle and placed it on his chest. He anxiously eyed the wax melt and pool, waiting for the molten liquid to land on his belly. She turned a glass over it and dimmed the flame. The sting of onion juice as she dripped it on him caused him to blink his eyes.

  "You really are scared, boy," Minnie said.

  "Just got a bad feeling is all."

  "Some of us were born more sensitive than others. I know that I always trust my feelings. Sometimes they know things your head ain't quite ready to know. Iffen I had to guess, you just startin' to wake up to your calling, your true life, is all. These hills are all I know, but they bury secrets as well as anywhere else." After inspecting her handiwork, she patted him on his shoulder. "There, you all fixed up. Now you're ready to go home."

  The sign for Bob's Creek teetered on a rusted metal arrow pointed toward a hollow gravel road that looked like the bottom of a creek bed. The town---more like a wide spot in the road---sat within a cradle of hills, the clouds poured along the tree line like smoke from the rest of the world erupting in flames. Bob's Creek was one of those places where people hid, though not especially well. A fox lay flattened in the middle of the road, its brains spilled into the pavement. Crows picked at the soft bits in his mouth. Ernest thought it a waste of some perfectly good stew meat.

  Uncle Russell had been like another father to him. Had been out hunting with his brother, Ernest's father, Gene, up on Daggett's Ridge the day he met Momma. Though they weren't real quick with strangers, they took her in as part of the family. Apparently family didn't mean as much as it used to: Uncle Russell had moved in with Ernest's other uncle's wife in a trailer of their own further down the hill. Ernest picked up a stone and threw it at the trailer. The metallic thump sent him darting out of sight.

  Ernest's dog, appropriately named Dog, stared with mild disinterest, not lifting its head. A skullcap of black fur matched a similar splotch on his back on an otherwise white body. Their home trailer was tucked into a corner of the dirt lot. The headboard from a twin bed leaned against it, as did a plastic reindeer with buckshot in its side. Firewood was piled at one end of it while wasp nests dangled from strings on the other end. A cross made out of preserved flowers sat on a rotted stump with the word "Grandpa" splayed beneath it. Ernest spat on it as he trundled past.