Horrorbook Read online

  Horrorbook

  Twenty-two tales of terror

  A. R. Braun

  ISBN 978-1-62840-178-3

  Copyright © 2009, 2010, 2011, 2013 A. R. Braun

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “Remember Me?” appeared in Issue 4 of Horror Bound Magazine, February 2009. “Shades of Gray (the Symbiosis of Light and Dark): appeared in Micro Horror Magazine, May 2009. “The Interloper” appeared in SNM Horror Magazine, June 2009, and again in the anthology Bonded by Blood 2: a Romance in Red, January 2010. “Never Meet Your Heroes” appeared in SNM Horror Magazine, August 2009. “Nil Caveat” appeared in SNM Horror Magazine, October 2009. “The Unwanted Visitors” appeared in the Vermin anthology, November, 2009. “Freaks” appeared in Issue 18 of Downstate Story Magazine, December 2009. “Coven” appeared in the Heavy Metal Horror anthology, December, 2009. “NREM Sleep” appeared in DOA: Extreme Horror Anthology, March 2011.

  Note: Some of these stories have been edited after publication.

  Cover graphic: © Andrew Gettler, Dreamstime.com

  Contents

  Introduction

  Foreword

  Remember Me?

  Shades of Gray (the Symbiosis of Light and Dark)

  The Interloper

  Never Meet Your Heroes

  Nil Caveat

  The Unwanted Visitors

  Freaks

  Coven

  Enemies From the Sky

  Terror in the Bell Tower

  Emaciated

  The Dead Have Walked the Earth

  Alien Consciousness

  RSVP (with Ro Van Saint)

  Every Witch Has Her Day

  Death Star

  Ramonita’s Curse

  From Rags to Witches

  Into the Pit

  Stricken

  The Woman Wore Black

  NREM Sleep

  Afterword

  Introduction

  A lot of people believe horror has become soft over the last years. They’d say horror writers are too concerned with 5-star reviews, creating ‘art’ and not offending anyone. If true, these writers have managed to build just another glass box around them, limiting not only their creativity, but their ability to shock readers and to initiate a purely emotional response. This might all be true, but it probably depends on what you’ve been reading lately, or perhaps which Hollywood films you’ve had to endure.

  Along comes A. R. Braun, a horror writer not scared of his own voice or those of critics. He’ll use whatever word or phrase he believes will suit the story. He’ll shock you, shake you, and get your blood pumping with straight up horror that’ll rip your face open.

  I met A. R. Braun when we were both relative newbies in fiction writing, back when we both lacked the confidence and skill to take a stand and show our stuff to the horror world. A lot has changed since then, that’s for sure. Who knows where you’ll run into A. R. Braun next.

  Braun’s fiction is heavily submerged in religion, revenge and curses. And why not? Not since the days of Rameses II and the Ancient Egyptians have there been so many accepted faiths as today. You don’t have to look far to find two or more religions clashing, sometimes violently, just like in Braun’s stories. Braun cautions us to guard our words and actions, because you never know what powers lie within your so-called victims. What goes around comes around, right?

  In Pieces of Meat, Braun will poke at boundaries until puss seeps from its pages. His narrative wit and smart analogies will both entertain and trouble you. The situations his characters find themselves in will be the worst you could possibly imagine, and just when you think a story’s coming to an end, Braun’s well-plotted words slap you through the face.

  So be warned. These pages contain stories that could very easily happen to you or someone close to you. That includes the scenes of torture, pain and real-life horror.

  This is not for Twilight fans. This is real horror. —Joe Mynhardt, November 2012

  Foreword

  Boy, have I learned a lot since I was a newbie. This wasn’t in the spring of 2009, when the first of my short stories got published, but in November of 2007 when I first wrote seriously, for it takes time for one to hone his craft. I was a Satanist at the time, an aggressive rogue who cared nothing for any code of ethics or writer rules that confronted me during this gig (I’m still an aggressive rogue, but only when somebody fucks with me, and only in my hometown). I was, after all, writing “evil horror stories,” so why should I be under the law, or grace, for that matter?

  I got into a lot of trouble, as you can imagine.

  I’ll say one thing, though: becoming an author has made me more intelligent. It’s impossible to read every night and stay as dumb as a doorknob. I’d written short stories on and off since I was eighteen, and I had only read when I felt like it (Stephen King, H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allen Poe and Mary Shelley; that’s about it) before, say, 2006, when Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft changed my life. Suddenly, my father could talk to me, and we’ve been going out to lunch and chatting it up every few months ever since, when before he’d been ashamed of me, the family’s black sheep.

  Somehow, it got into my head that I didn’t need college and to just get a job and put together a heavy metal band when I turned eighteen. Well, I never got in with the right kind of fellows and found out later I was meant to play death metal, which I do anonymously as a studio project; I perform everything but the drums. I did end up going to college later, although I had to transfer after getting kicked out of one. I’d always had a bad temper, and finally, in 2007, I decided to put that trait of scaring the shit out of people to good use.

  At that time, I was working harder than ever, had just been through a divorce, rented a new flat—the first nice apartment I’d ever rented—and I thought I’d be an overnight success.

  Then my reality check came.

  After getting into trouble with industry professionals a few times, I’ve learned to be mature, to embrace discretion. I’ve also learned to be personable and professional, not wild and crazy. I guess the biggest monster I’d ever had to defeat was myself.

  On the written page, I’m still a beast, however. I like to think that in my stories, I’m the most evil person around, while in person I’m the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. Unfortunately, I’m still working on the latter.

  About these tales that follow: I try to be the most brutal writer out there. I may not be, but this is always the intention, although it’s not my intention to come off as making fun of writing, as it may seem sometimes to my critique group; these are just the ideas that pop into my head. Therefore, I create some pretty crazy shit. Wanting to occasionally go beyond horror, I like to venture into the torture-horror genre, and you’ll find that most of these stories could’ve happened in real life.

  It’s more frightening that way.

  Rarely do I employ a monster, for I feel certain people are monstrous enough. Almost all of the nine published stories in this volume deal with insanity, and I think nothing’s scarier than that. The few times I did write about monsters, I hope I came at them in a different way or had you thinking they weren’t going to show, then BAM.

  Sucks, being predictable.

  Finally, the dreaded question: Why do I write horror? There are two answers if you check the archives. In the Peoria, IL Journal Star in 2009, I said “for fun.” Now I like to think most of these tales address the question of why people suffer and why some people die before their time, that they give answers that aren’t there. Some people have aske
d me, “Why don’t you find the answers in the Bible?” Well, I feel that creates more questions, like “Why does God allow people to suffer and let the enemy win?”

  All right, I’m done being long-winded, so enjoy my tales of terror. I hope you read these stories alone, in the dark, with a wan light, and they traumatize you. After all, isn’t that the point of horror? —A. R. Braun, February 2012.

  Remember Me?

  Rod Blaze finished his lead solo as the small crowd roared. Subterfuge—his band—brought it home and the drummer pounded out a drum roll.

  The lead singer who actually growled, Damn Nate Shun, stepped up to the mic. “Thank you, Tampa!” Rod walked off the stage talking to the other band members about how stellar the pit had been. Damn had thought the pit larger and more aggressive than most.

  Rod departed from their company and ordered a shot of whiskey from the small club’s bar.

  Someone slapped him on the back, hard.

  Rod craned his neck to see a red-haired muscle head looming down on him.

  The man smiled. “Remember me?”

  Rod looked confused. “Who are you?”

  “Why, it’s your old buddy from school—Red Tisdale.”

  Rod remembered him, the person who’d bullied him when he’d been a twelve-year-old in eighth grade. Since Rod had become a metal-head and Red hadn’t, Rod had started hanging out with longhaired boys and had stopped visiting him. Left without a buddy for three years, Red had begun bullying him. At the time, Red had not been a muscle head, but had possessed a bigger build. A mop of hair and a scrawny body described Rod’s look back then.

  Rod kept his cool. “So, did you like the show?”

  “Actually I hated it. I prefer bands that are human.”

  Rod scowled. “Look, dickhead, if you don’t like the music, then leave.”

  Red flexed his muscles. “You see these babies? I’ll knock you into next year!”

  Rod knocked Red off him and scowled. “Step out, sucker.”

  “What the hell? I was trying to be friendly. I see nothing’s changed. You were my friend until you turned to that metal crap. Then you were too good for me.”

  “You’re still thinking about that? We were kids!”

  “I don’t forget shit. It’s brutal. I’m going to pound you to death.”

  Rod thought back to his childhood and recalled the times the police had busted Red for starting a fire in the woods and torturing an animal in his garage. “You’re nuts!”

  “Nuts? I’m not the one who’s a dirt bag!”

  Rod’s anger flared—adrenaline surging through him after the show—and his desire for revenge because of Red’s childhood bullying won out. “Enough talk. Step outside. We have unfinished business.”

  “That’s fine with me!”

  Rod, shaking just slightly, followed him outside, and a crowd of Rod’s fans brought up the rear.

  Once outside, Red threw a strong punch but Rod blocked it, twisting his arm behind his back. Rod threw him against the wall—a spray of blood covering the bricks as his face hit—and raised his arm up high behind his back.

  Red’s face turned as scarlet as his hair. “Ah! Let me go, you hippy dog!”

  Rod hardened his face. “That’s metal-head to you, you nutcase!” He raised his arm higher.

  Red shrieked. “All right, I give up, goddamn it!”

  Rod released him. “Just remember who the boss is now, and my music’s not crap. You just don’t understand it.”

  Red widened his eyes and lunged for him. He attempted a wrestling take-down move.

  Rod saw it coming and pivoted out of his way. Red tumbled into the gutter.

  The crowd laughed and made unsavory comments about Red.

  Red picked himself up, screamed and ran at Rod with everything he had. Rod knocked Red off him again and shot a series of kicks at his head, knocking him back a little more with each kick.

  Red blanched. “Stop it! Fuck!” He hit the side of a Ford Escort.

  Rod shook his head. “You’re lucky I am stopping. Don’t fuck with me again.” He walked triumphantly back into the bar as the crowd cheered. He sat down and ordered another whiskey. Well, that’s that.

  Damn sat down next to him. “Hey, I watched you kick that guy’s ass.”

  Rod smiled. “Who da demon?”

  “You da demon!”

  Rod heard someone hurling insults from the front door area. He turned his head to see Red jumping up and down. “DAMN YOU, ROD. YOU RUINED MY LIFE AGAIN. AS IF IT WEREN’T BAD ENOUGH THAT YOU DUMPED ME AS A FRIEND WHEN WE WERE KIDS TO BECOME A FREAK, NOW YOU’VE KICKED MY ASS IN FRONT OF A BUNCH OF PEOPLE. I’M GOING TO GET YOU, YOU PIECE OF TRASH. I’M GOING TO RUIN YOUR LIFE LIKE YOU RUINED MINE. YOU’LL SEE. IT’S ON. WHEN YOU TURN AROUND, I’LL BE THERE. WHEREVER YOU GO, I’LL BE WATCHING. YOU’D BETTER SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN.”

  Rod blanched, and then frowned. “GEEK, YOU WANT SOME MORE? LEAVE ME ALONE OR I’LL KICK YOUR ASS AGAIN.”

  A couple of bouncers grabbed Red by his collar and showed him to the sidewalk.

  Rod smiled again, waving. “HAVE A NICE LIFE.”

  Damn laughed.

  Rod’s girlfriend was in Miami with her folks, so he decided to sleep alone. As he drove his black convertible with the top down through the barely chilly Tampa night, he admired the good looking hookers strutting up and down the street. He felt tempted to cheat on his girlfriend—he had the cash. No, I love her.

  As he pulled into the driveway of his small house, Rod couldn’t help but look around a little more than usual. He thought of Red’s threat. Man, don’t be paranoid. He won’t do anything after the ass-kicking I gave him.

  He raised the top and flicked the garage door opener. He parked and closed the garage door. He unlocked his entry door, and as soon as he crossed the threshold, the cordless house phone rang.

  Oh! That must be Shelly calling to tell me how bored she is. Rod answered the phone. “Hey, babe, how’s Miami?”

  “This isn’t your babe,” a man answered. “You faggot!”

  Rod realized it was Red. Panic shot through him, tightening his stomach muscles. Then he forged some wrath. “How the hell did you get my number?”

  “I told your drummer I was your friend after the show and he gave it to me. That was before I talked to you and you flipped out.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I told you. I’m going to get you! Your life will be ruined soon.”

  Click.

  “Hello? HELLO?” Rod slammed down the phone. Damn nut. I kicked his ass and he’s still proud as hell.

  Rod checked his phone and the call had come up restricted, so he couldn’t call him back. At this point he could get a hold of his band and hunt Red’s ass down or call the police. He definitely wasn’t going to call the cops. That wouldn’t be death metal. He was about to call his band-mates when he realized he felt exhausted. Oh well, no use living in fear.

  Rod turned the lights out and went to bed.

  He woke up in the middle of the night smelling something burning. He rose to a sitting position and saw smoke wafting in through the bottom of his bedroom door. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Rod yanked his jeans on and opened the door.

  Smoke poured in. The fire had been raging for a while and flames completely engulfed the house. All he could do was grab his guitar in its case, open the bedroom window and climb out.

  Standing in the yard watching his house burn down, he threw the guitar case. “I’m going to KILL that jerk!”

  Rod grabbed his cell phone from his pants pocket and dialed the fire department. Then he started smacking himself in the head. “Oh my GOD, WHAT THE HELL is going ON?” He felt as if he’d have a nervous breakdown.

  Was that laughing he heard in the distance?

  Rod wheeled around and surveyed the neighborhood. He didn’t see anyone. “IF THAT’S YOU, RED, YOU’RE DEAD.”

  He took off into the night, not waiting for the fi
remen or the police. He had no proof Red had started the fire, and Rod wanted to handle it himself. He’d called the police on people before and they hadn’t helped him because they’d assumed he was a punk because of how he dressed. He headed toward his singer’s house.

  Rod banged on the door at 4:00 a.m. He heard moaning and then it abruptly stopped. A few minutes later, Damn Nate Shun answered the door.

  “What in the hell happened to you?” Nate asked with a gaping mouth.

  Rod shook his head. “We need to find that Red jerk and end him.”

  Petunia, Damn’s girlfriend, came up behind him clad only in a bed sheet. “What’s going on, Nate?”

  Damn turned around, scowling. “Go back to bed.”

  She did.

  Damn pulled his hair out of his eyes. “Well . . . come in, man.”

  Rod traipsed in. “The bastard burned down my house.” He set his guitar case down and sat in a La-Z-Boy chair.

  Damn walked over and stood over him. “Are you kidding me?”

  Rod stared straight ahead and shook his head. “We’d better track this one down.”

  Damn stomped over to his bar and grabbed a fifth of whiskey. “Hey, heads up.” He threw it at Rod, who caught it.

  Rod’s cell rang. He pulled it out of his jeans and flipped it open, sticking it to his ear. “Hello?”

  “HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA,” Red laughed.

  Rod jerked out of his seat. “You FREAKIN’ BASTARD. I’m going to track you down, dismember you and FEED YOU TO THE DOG.”

  “To do that, you’d have to find me. Where could I be? At a bar, staying with a friend or dancing around the smoldering embers? HA-HA-HA-HA-HA.”

  “Wherever you are, you better enjoy life while you can because I’m ending it.”

  “Oh REALLY? Well, before MY life ends, I want to know one thing.”

  “What, freak?”

  “How does it feel to know someone ruined your life?”

  Click.

  “Hello? HELLO?” Rod flipped the phone shut and looked at Damn. “He just admitted burning down my house.”