The Lake & 17 Other Stories Read online

  The Lake and 17 Other Stories

  Kindle Edition

  All stories written by David McAfee except:

  One Last Dinner Party, written by David Dalglish

  Cover by David McAfee

  Lake image provided by stock.xchng

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  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 you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your direct use only, please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For Dad, who isn’t here to see this.

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  I’d like to explain something about the tiny short horror stories in this book. All but three were part of a challenge to tell a complete story in exactly 100 words. Not 99, not 101, but 100. That included the title. When it first came up I didn’t think I could do it. How can you tell a story in only 100 words? But I gave it a shot and came up with 15 of them. You will find 14 in this book. The one I didn’t include really stunk, and I’ll never show it to anyone as long as I live, so don’t ask.

  I found the exercise to be fun and educational. When your goal is to have a certain number of words, it really makes you think about word choice. Aspiring writers hear a lot about word choice and tightening up the narrative, but putting it into practice is something altogether different. You really have to pay attention to the individual meaning and impact of every single word. Does it belong there? Does it make sense? Is it too much? It was quite a challenge, and I’ve rarely had as much fun writing stories as I did when putting those mini tales together.

  The other three short stories are longer, more traditional horror stories. All three were previously available from my former publisher, but for a much higher price. I love all of them, and I’m hoping you will, too. And if you think I’m slightly off in the head after reading them, then I guess that’s OK.

  Enjoy!

  David McAfee

  Contents

  Mario

  Joe

  Exhibit A

  Cardiac Episode

  The Basement

  Vague

  Scott and Mary

  The Spider and the Fly

  Brothers

  Bobby and the Mayor

  Cold

  Writers Wanted

  The Lake

  Headaches

  Kyle is Hungry

  Late Night Swim

  Protégé

  Teeth

  More…

  Mario

  "Mario! Come back here!"

  Mario kept silent. His mom could yell all she wanted; he wasn’t going back. After fifteen years he would soon be free. Besides, she wouldn’t be yelling for much longer.

  "Mario!" She was answered by an explosion that shook the whole block. Her eyes widened to dinner plates as she flew through the air to crash some twenty yards away.

  "There you are!" his father said. His white lab coat looked orange in the firelight. Mario tried to hide the detonator, but the buckles on his sleeve hindered him.

  "I’m not going back," Mario said.

  Joe

  Her fucking car wouldn’t start. Again.

  “Damn it!” She reached over and slapped Joe hard on the face. “What am I gonna do now, asshole?” Joe didn’t reply. Instead, he stared vacantly toward the dust-covered windshield. The bastard didn’t even acknowledge the slap.

  “You’re no fun anymore, Joe.” She said.

  To this, Joe slumped forward in the seat until his forehead rested on the glove box. Fresh blood poured from the wound on his neck and mingled with the puddle in his lap.

  She licked a stray drop from her upper lip. “Next time, fix my fucking car right!”

  Exhibit A

  Oh good, you’re awake. You’ve been out of it longer than I thought you’d be, I was gettin' worried. But hey, you’re up now. That means we can get started. Great! Now, just hold on. Settle down, you shouldn’t try to move so much yet. Just relax. That’s right. Wait a second, I gotta make sure the tape recorder's on. Yup. Good. Ok, now we're ready.

  Y’know, watchin' you layin' on the floor like that really got me thinkin'. I’m always amazed by the guys who think having the ability to do somethin' is the same as havin’ permission. You know the type; the men and women who believe the laws of Man and God don’t apply to them, like they live above the rest of us. And I ain’t talkin' about some rich prick, either. Hell, those guys're conditioned to think that way. Nah, I’m talkin' about the people who are mostly just like you and me. Regular folks, so to speak, who for some reason get it in their head they ain’t regular folks.

  I see 'em on TV every now and then. The jackass rapist who sticks his dork in half a dozen women and then wonders why everyone hates him when he gets caught. Or the twenty-somethin' year old gang-banger who kills four kids in a drive-by and then can’t figure out why the prosecutor's demandin' such a stiff sentence. Or even the housewife who thinks her hubby isn’t payin' enough attention to her and decides she’d be better off with his life insurance payout than with him. They all got one thing in common; they're always surprised as Hell to find out they gotta be punished for what they did. It’s almost like they think they’re entitled to do that shit, you know what I mean? Those are the assholes I’m talkin' about. I just wanna smack 'em in the face and say “You did the crime, y'know? Now take your fuckin’ medicine. You earned it, after all.”

  Say, how’s that rope, buddy? Too tight? Shit, my bad. I guess you can’t really talk right now, can you? Sorry about that. Tell you what, if the rope is buggin’ you, just nod your head. Yeah, like that. That's good. If I had a better place, with soundproofin' and whatnot, I’d take the gag off you, and we could have ourselves a civilized conversation. Ah, well. We’ll just have to make do.

  Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Assholes.

  Not me, though. When they catch me (and I know they will sooner or later), I’m gonna deserve everythin' I get. Maybe they’ll even give me the death penalty. Hell, I guess you could kinda say that’s my goal. That’s why I’m startin' this audio journal; so later on, when the prosecutor is trying to prove Mental Capacity, he can play this tape and shout “There! There in the defendant’s own words is the proof that he knew exactly what he was doin',” and point at the tape player with a righteous look on his face. Or her face. Hell, this is the two-K's, I gotta start thinkin' multi-gender, huh?

  People’s Exhibit A. That’s what they’ll call it, I bet. Like they do on those cop shows. I like C.S.I., don't you? I watch that show every week. It pisses me off they got ridda Warrick, though. Assholes in Hollywood don't know what the fuck they're doin'. But anyway, yeah. People's Exhibit A. As in “I'd like to present People’s Exhibit A, Your Honor, an audio tape made by the defendant himself.” Then they’ll play it for the whole courtroom, and I’ll just sit there watchin’ the jurors squirm and tryin' not to smile. Hey, you’ll be on everyone’s mind, then. Won’t that be great? I like to imagine it as a dramatic moment, full of hushed whispers as a courtroom full of people try to puzzle out the hows or whys.

  “How could he do such a thing?” They’ll ask. Then: “Why would he do such a thing?” That’s the one that’ll keep 'em awake at night, I bet. Not the how, but the why. They just won’t know. They won’t get it. But that’s ok. I’m used to that.

  Well, for those future jurors sittin' in that stupid little box, let me clear it up for you: There is no how. There is no why. I’m doin' this because I can,
and because I want to. Oh, don’t be so prissy. Not one of you can say you never thought about it. Also, let me say right now, at the outset, that I don’t give a rat’s ass what the defense’s shrink may say about me while I'm sittin' there, don't you believe a word of it. I ain't fuckin' crazy. Give me the quack’s name and I’ll do him or her next so you won’t have to listen to their bullshit. Well, I guess that’s jumpin' the gun a bit, but you folks in the jury box get the idea. Hell, with any luck, maybe my next guy will be a lawyer. Ha! That’d be great.

  Hey, man, quit thrashin' around on the table. You’re only makin’ the knots tighter, anyway.

  Shit. You know what, though? You’re abso-fuckin'-lutley right. I'm bein' rude. You’re my guest; I should be payin' attention to you, not some future jury of my “peers.” Okay, then, let’s get to work. I got my knife right here. Now, don’t worry; I sterilized the blade. See? There’s still some alcohol on it. Well, there was a second ago, but that shit dries pretty quick.

  Don’t let the size fool you. I know it’s just a little one, but -- hey, what’s that line women are always feedin’ us? That shit about how it ain’t the size, it’s how you use it? Ha! I love that one. Well, I promise you ain’t gonna be disappointed. Sure, it’s small, but this little sucker’s good’n sharp. And this ain't gonna be one of those two-minutes-and-it's-over type of deals, either. You and me, we’re gonna be here a while.

  Now, I woulda liked to get my hands on some good anesthetics. Maybe that crap dentists use. What’s it called? Novocain? Somethin' like that. But I can’t afford any of that shit, so this might sting a little. Sorry about that, I really am. Can’t be helped, though. You go on ahead and scream if you have to, it’s cool. That’s why I put the gag on you in the first place. Oh, and don’t worry about infections, either. I have lots of water and rubbin' alcohol, so the cuts’ll stay good and clean. Besides, this’ll be over long before any infections set in.

  I know this might not mean much to you, but in a way, you should feel special. You’re my first, y'know. After this I won’t be a virgin anymore. You’re gonna pop my cherry. Ain’t that cool?

  Quit squirmin'! You’re only drivin' the blade deeper…

  Cardiac Episode

  Pain in his chest. Numbness in his left arm. Not good. Not now. This can’t happen now.

  The drugs did their job; the woman was out cold. He opened her gown, exposing her breasts, and smiled when her nipples hardened. Time to get to work.

  More pain. The worst yet. He fell to the floor, taking his scalpel with him.

  ***

  Groggy, she lifted her head from the table. According to the wall clock, she’d lost two hours somewhere. A frown creased her face when she noticed her uncovered chest.

  “That’s funny,” she said. “They don’t look any bigger.”

  The Basement

  What remains of her boyfriend Robbie hangs from a pair of rusty hooks in the ceiling. Hunks of dripping flesh spatter the concrete floor with blood and other body fluids.

  She wriggles, trying to loosen the ropes. No use.

  “There,” a voice says. “That oughtta do it.”

  She turns, knowing already what she will see. Robbie’s murderer stands nearby, grinning. Six foot three, easily two seventy. The sweaty man wrings his hands with a wet towel, his features twisted with glee. Robbie’s blood stains the front of his white T-shirt.

  “Birth control pills, my ass,” her father says.

  Vague

  She put the barrel to his temple and pushed. The cold steel sobered him instantly. “Are you willing to die for it?”

  Her question mocked him. Surely she knew the answer already. She had to. He shook his head, no longer trusting his instincts.

  She smiled. “I thought not.” She placed the handle in his grip and pointed the business end between her breasts, just left of the sternum. “Well, then…are you willing to kill for it?”

  He pulled the trigger. Click! Nothing.

  She laughed as she took the gun away. “Did you really think I’d be that stupid?”

  Scott and Mary

  “What is it, Scott?”

  “It’s a penis. What’s it look like?”

  “That’s a penis?”

  “You’re hilarious, Mary. Get over here.”

  Smiling, she grabbed the penis in her hand. “It looks red. What’d you do to it?”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Mary!”

  “Ok, ok. Sheesh!” She put it in her mouth and got started. When she finished, she wiped her lips with a napkin. “That was a good one.”

  “Told you.”

  “Where’d you get it, anyway?”

  “I caught a hobo yesterday,” Scott waved a greasy rib at the freezer door. “The rest of him is in there.”

  The Spider and the Fly

  “Come, boy,” Beakle said, wagging his finger at the child in the tattered clothing. “We are almost there.” The weak light of the gas streetlamps battled with the light of the full moon, bathing the street in a soft, surreal glow. The boy walked too slow. Beakle kept having to slow down for him to catch up. He wanted to get off the streets and get on with the night’s business. Back in his kitchen, his stores stood nearly empty, but soon he would fix that. The boy would fill them quite nicely.

  “Are you certain, sir,” the boy asked, “that you can help her?”

  “Of course I can.” Beakle smiled. The boy, whose name Beakle did not know, had come ‘round the streets an hour ago asking everyone he saw for help. His mother was laid up, and by the symptoms the boy described, Beakle knew she was sick with Plague. There would be no saving her, and the boy’s proximity to the Plague did not endear him to many passers-by. Only Beakle was unafraid, but then, what could the Plague do to him that Time and God had not already done? He looked at his gnarled, liver-spotted hands, crippled with the Twisting Disease, and bit back a chuckle. Plague indeed… he should be so lucky.

  Besides, Beakle was hungry.

  He’d boil the boy first, until he was good and tender, soft enough for his old teeth to manage. That was always the best day; right after the boiling. The flesh was so easy to eat he almost didn’t need to chew. After that came the salting and the drying, which always made the meat hard and tough. Less fun. Much like that which hung in his pantry now; the remains of a little girl he’d found roaming the alleys one night. Now nothing but jerky in a sack nailed to the wall. Sustenance, yes, but enjoyable? Hardly. Like chewing rawhide or shoe leather.

  But not tonight. He smiled. Tonight, he would feast.

  He turned back and looked at the boy again. Scrawny lad; of the type often seen wandering the streets. Dressed in rags and with a mother soon to be dead of Plague. No one would come looking for him. Beakle looked at a patch of the boy’s thigh, visible through a tear in his ragged trousers. The thigh was his favorite part. Big muscle, took a long time to cook, but with the right seasoning…

  He had to turn away, lest his face give away his intent. The boy was small, but young, and Beakle would have no hope of catching the young sprite if he took a mind to run. His knees, twisted by the same malady that afflicted his knuckles, simply would not allow him to chase after his meal, hence the need to lure the boy into his kitchen. The spider and the fly.

  “Tell me again how long your mother has been ill,” Beakle said, wanting to keep the boy distracted. “It will help me figure the dose.”

  “A few days. No more than three,” The boy replied, holding his hand up and showing Beakle three splayed, dirty fingers.

  “Good,” Beakle said. “That’s not too bad. I should be able to fix her right up.”

  The boy smiled, revealing crooked, slightly yellow teeth. Common enough for the urchins who prowled the city. Beakle was doing him a favor, really. Three days of the Plague? The mother was probably dead by now, and if the boy didn’t already have plague, too, then he’d likely die of starvation or thirst soon enough. Beakle would save him from all that. This time he did chuckle. If anything, he should ge
t a medal for sparing the boy the hardships ahead.

  He reached his street and turned left. “Only a short ways, now.” His house hunkered at the end of the lane, the last one on the street. Old, and in a sad state of disrepair, but also isolated and with several good, solid rooms. Rooms like his kitchen, which was really a basement dug under the wooden floor. No sound escaped the place, and he’d taken to boiling his meals alive, like lobsters, to enjoy the screaming. He fancied that struggles and pain made the flesh extra soft and juicy. He licked his lips as he led the boy to his doom.

  At the doorway, the child balked. Beakle swore under his breath. So close!

  “Is this your house?” The boy asked.

  “It is,” Beakle said. “Come on, lad. Just a bit further.”

  “I don’t want to go in there,” the boy said.

  Blast! Beakle glanced up the street to see if anyone was about. Traffic on this end of the lane was thin, with only a few people walking and not a carriage to be seen, let alone a constable, but there were enough people that someone would notice if the lad started to scream while being dragged inside Beakle’s home against his will. While most people would likely mind their own, especially in this area of the city, he couldn’t chance that some busybody might take offense and send a constable his way.

  “Whyever not?” Beakle asked, thinking better of trying his luck with witnesses.

  “It’s haunted, isn’t it?”

  “Ha! Haunted?” Beakle might have known. He did not have to feign his amusement; the rumors about his house had circulated the city for decades. “Only by myself, lad. Where did you hear such a thing?”