Welcome to Scary Saturday for July 10, 2010
For the past year our Free Kindle Nation Shorts program has been connecting thousands of Kindle readers with emerging and established writers, and we’re proud to have helped many writers of distinction climb the Kindle Store bestseller lists. One of those authors has been Joe Konrath, and it has been a lot of fun to watch such a talented storyteller become one of the most successful fiction writers in the Kindlesphere. Joe has also been a very important trailblazer in the world of writing and independent publishing, so I was especially pleased when he decided recently that he wanted to give something back to the citizens of Kindle Nation by providing the stories on which we are drawing to initiate a new Free Kindle Nation Shorts feature called “Scary Saturday.”
We’ll continue to showcase many other writers here at Free Kindle Nation Shorts, but on many coming Saturdays we’ll treat you to truckloads of terror with the horror fiction of J.A. “Joe” Konrath. We’ll also provide links to his current and coming Kindle books and we hope you’ll be brave enough to turn all the lights on and keep reading.
Check out the latest bestsellers by J.A. Konrath, just $2.99 in the Kindle Store!
or scroll to the end of the story to read more about Joe Konrath
* * * * *
“The Shed“
a short story by Jack Kilborn, J.A. Konrath
Copyright © 2010 Joe Konrath and published here with his permission
Author’s note: Just about every horror mag in the world rejected this story. I’m not sure why. Sure, it’s a standard EC Comics supernatural comeuppance, but I think it’s fun. It eventually sold to Surreal Magazine.
-J.K.
* * * * *
“That’s gotta be where the money is.”
Rory took one last hit off the Kool and flicked the butt into a copse of barren trees. The orange firefly trail arced, then died.
Phil shook his head. “Why the hell would he keep his money locked up in a backyard shed?”
“Because he’s a crazy old shit. Hasn’t left the house in thirty years.”
The night was cold and smelled like rotting leaves. They stood at the southern side of Old Man Loki’s property, just beyond a tall hedge with thorns like spikes. The estate butted up against the forest preserve on the east and Lake Fenris on the west. Due north was Fenris Road, a winding, private driveway that eventually connected with Interstate 10 about six miles up.
Phil peered through the bramble at the mansion. It rested, dark and quiet, a mountain of jutting dormers and odd angles. To Phil it looked like something that had been asleep for a long time.
“Even crazy people know about banks.”
Rory clamped a hand behind Phil’s head and tugged the smaller teen closer. “If it’s not money, then why the hell does he got that big lock and chain on it? To protect his lawnmower?”
Phil pulled away and glanced at the shed. It stood only a few dozen yards away, the size of a small garage. The roof was tar shingles, rain-worn to gray, and dead vines partially obscured the oversized padlock and chain hanging on the door.
“Doesn’t look like it’s been opened in a while.”
Rory grinned, his teeth blue in the moonlight. “All the more reason to open it now.”
It felt all wrong, but Phil followed Rory onto the estate grounds. A breeze cooled the sweat that had broken out on his neck. Rory pulled the crowbar from his belt and swung it at a particularly tall prickle-weed.
“Yard looks like shit. Can’t he pay someone to cut his goddamned grass?”
“Maybe he’s dead.” Phil chanced another look at the mansion. “No lights on.”
“We woulda heard about it.”
“Could be recent. Could be he just died, and no one found the body yet.”
Phil’s words bounced small and tinny in the open air. He felt a rush of exposure, as if Old Man Loki was sitting at one of the dark windows of his house and watching their every move.
“You turning chicken shit on me? Baby need his wittle bottle?”
“Shut up, Rory. What if he is dead?”
“Then he won’t mind us stealing his shit. Damn-will you check out the size of that lock!”
The padlock was almost as big as Phil’s head. An old-fashioned type with a key-shaped opening on its face, securing three lengths of thick, rusty chain which wrapped around the entire shed like packing tape.
“You gonna try to bust that with just a crowbar?”
“Won’t know until we try.” Rory raised the iron over his head, and Phil set his jaw and cringed at the oncoming sound.
The clang reverberated over the grounds like a ghost looking for someone to haunt.
“Sonuvabitch! First try!”
The lock hung open on a rusty hinge. Rory pulled it off and the chains fell to the ground in a tangle. Phil eyed the door. It was some kind of heavy wood, black as death. Next to the doorknob was a grimy brass plaque.
“Welcome,” Phil read.
“How about that shit? We’re invited.”
Rory laughed, but Phil felt a chill stronger than the night air. He’d heard stories about Old Man Loki. Stories of how he used to live in Europe, and how he hung around with that creepy Mr. Crowley guy Ozzy sang about.
Reflexively, Phil looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
There was a light on in the house.
“Shit! Rory, there’s…”
The light winked twice, then went off.
“There’s what, Phil?”
“A light. On the second floor.”
Rory pulled a face and made a show of squinting at the mansion. His mouth stretched open in horror, lips snicking back over years of dental neglect.
“Run, Phil! Jesus Christ! Run!”
Phil took off in a dead sprint, fighting to keep his bladder closed. He was forty yards away when he noticed Rory wasn’t next to him.
That’s when he heard his friend’s laughter.
Phil looked back over his shoulder and saw Rory holding his stomach, guffawing so loud that it sounded like a barking dog.
Phil felt his ears burn. He took his time walking back to the shed.
“You should have seen your face!” Rory had tears in his eyes.
“Shut up, Rory. That wasn’t funny.”
“I swear, you ran like that during football tryouts you woulda made the team.”
Phil turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I wasn’t scared. You told me to run, so I did.”
“Okay, tough guy-prove you aren’t scared.” Rory pointed at the black door. “You go in first.”
Phil chewed his lower lip. If he didn’t go in, Rory would never let him forget it. The teasing would last for eternity.
Why the hell did he hang out with Rory anyway?
“I knew you were chicken.”
“Kiss my ass, Rory.”
Phil grasped the knob and pulled.
The massive door opened with a whisper, moving smoothly despite its weight. Warm, stale air enveloped Phil, and the sound of his own breathing echoed back at him.
So quiet.
Rory switched on the flashlight. The small beam played over four bare walls.
“It’s empty.”
“Shine the light on the floor.”
The cone of light jerked to the center of the room, bending over the edge of a large, round pit and disappearing into the darkness.
“What the hell is that?”
Rory crept up to the edge, holding his flashlight out in front of him like a sword. He peered down into the pit.
“Do you smell that?”
“Yeah. Rotten eggs. I think it’s coming from the hole.”
Phil glanced over his shoulder again, taking a quick peek at the house.
The light was back on.
“Rory-”
“There’s a rusty ladder going down.”
“The light is-”
“Shh! Do you hear that?”
Both boys held their breath. There was a quick, rhythmic thumping, coming from deep within the pit.
Bump…bump…bump…bump…bump…
“What is that? Footsteps?”
…bump…bump…bump…bump…
“It’s getting louder.”
The sound quickened, like a Harley accelerating.
“I think something’s coming up the ladder.”
Phil decided he’d had enough. This was the part in the movie where the stupid kids got their guts ripped out, and he didn’t want to stick around for it. He spun on his heels and hauled ass for the entrance, just in time to see a very old man with a pulpy, misshapen face slam the door closed.
Phil grabbed for the knob and pushed, but the door held firm.
“He locked us in! Old Man Loki locked us in!”
Rory kept his focus on the pit. “I think I can see some…”
A black hairy thing sprang out of the hole and yanked Rory downward. The flashlight spun in the empty air for the briefest of seconds, and then fell into the pit after Rory, the light dimming until the room was drenched in pitch black.
Phil stood stock-still in the darkness.
A minute passed.
Five.
He heard whimpering, and realized it was his own.
This can’t be happening, he thought. Why was this happening?
Bump.
A sound. Coming from the pit.
The thing was climbing the ladder.
Phil forced himself to back up until he was pressed against the door.
“Hailmaryfulofgracethelordiswithyou-”
…bump…bump…bump…bump…bump…
“-blessedartthouamong-”
The noise crescendoed, then stopped.
The silence was horrible.
Phil couldn’t see anything, but he could feel the presence of something large and warm coming towards him. Something that smelled like rotten eggs and wet dog.
He screamed, and kept screaming when it wrapped its prickly tentacles around his face, a thousand hooks digging in and pulling. Phil’s hands shot up to push the pain away, and similar barbs shot into his palms.
His screaming stopped when the barbs filled his open mouth.
Then, with a quick tug, Phil was dragged down into the pit.
There was a sensation of falling, skin burning and tearing away, consciousness blurring into a darkness as complete as the one that surrounded him.
And suddenly, Phil was watching a movie in his head. A shaky, black and white film of him and Rory breaking into Old Man Loki’s mansion. Rory had the crowbar, and they used it on Loki, breaking his bones, bashing his face, demanding his money. Old Man Loki moaning the whole time, “The shed! The shed!” Repeating it over and over, even when Rory jammed the crowbar down the old man’s throat.
The movie abruptly cut to Phil as a much older man, clad in an orange prison uniform. He was strapped to a chair, a guard swabbing electrolyte on his temples and his left leg. The switch was thrown and Phil’s blood began to boil within his veins, every nerve locked in agony.
Phil watched the prison doctor pronounce him dead, watched as his own soul left his body, transporting him to Loki’s estate.
A terrifying deja vu ensued as he viewed himself acting out the same scenario he’d experienced only moments ago. Breaking into the shed-the thing grabbing Rory-getting dragged into the pit-
When Phil finally caught up with himself, he discovered he was in a small, stone dungeon.
Next to him, a forty-year-old version of Rory was chained to a medieval torture rack, naked and stretched out until his shoulders had separated. His body was a haven of slithering, spiny worms, which burrowed underneath his skin.
“Hi, buddy.” Rory offered a bloody smile, his teeth filed down to exposed nerves. “Be nice to have some company.”
Phil remembered that Rory had been executed eight years prior.
“What’s going on? What happened to the shed?”
Rory whimpered, a worm tunneling into his ear. “Old Man Loki didn’t have no shed. That’s why we beat him to death. Kept saying it over and over, when we asked him where his money was.”
“But we just broke into the shed.”
The worm stitched out of Rory’s nose, trailing crimson mucus. “The shed is the doorway to this place. I remember breaking in, too. Right after I died.”
Phil squeezed his eyes shut. His temples still burned where the electrodes had been attached. But the memory of his own death dwarfed the fear he felt right now.
He opened his eyes and tried to bolt, panic surging through him. But, like Rory, he found himself tied to a rack. His eyes fell upon a fire pit, where a dozen branding irons glowed white.
A squat, hairy man entered the room. He had sharp horns sticking out of his head where ears would normally be, and his skin was a dull shade of crimson.
He picked up a hot iron and gave Phil a fanged grin.
“Welcome to eternity, Phil. Let’s get started.”
* * * * *
Okay … turn the lights on and take a deep breath.
It’s going to be okay … until next week, on …
Scary Saturday
