X: A Collection of Horror Read online

  X

  By C.M. Saunders

  © This work of fiction is copyright of the author. No part of the text or artwork may be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Acknowledgements

  A Hell of my Own Creation was first published in Tales of the Grotesque & Arabesque (1999) and later as The Art of Lucid Dreaming in the anthology Torn Realities (2012)

  A Thin Disguise was first published in Raw Nerve (1998) and later in the anthology The Best of Raw Nerve (2002)

  Monkey Man (Revised). Original version published in Cambrensis (1997)

  Another False Dawn was first published in Screams of Terror (2009)

  Mr. C was first published in The Asphalt Jungle (1998) and later in the anthology The Best of the Asphalt Jungle (1999)

  The Devil & Jim Rosenthal was first published in Roadworks (2000) and the anthology D.O.A: Extreme Horror (2010)

  Club Culture was first published in Shallow Graves (2009)

  The Awful Truth, The Night Everything Changed, and Fame/Infamy: A Deconstruction are previously unpublished.

  Contents

  Introduction: That's Entertainment

  A Thin Disguise

  A Hell of my Own Creation

  Monkey Man

  The Awful Truth

  Mr. C

  Fame / Infamy: A Deconstruction

  Another False Dawn

  The Night Everything Changed

  The Devil & Jim Rosenthal

  Club Culture

  Afterword

  Introduction:

  That's Entertainment

  I know what you're thinking...

  Did he fire six shots or only five?

  Am I the only person here old enough to remember that line?

  You're thinking... what makes this guy think he's written anything worth reading?

  And why the fuck is he banging on about Dirty Harry?

  He isn't going to say anything interesting. He's neither going to inform or entertain me. I'm bored already...

  That's what I would be thinking if I were you.

  Ah... endearing false modesty.

  I'm not kidding myself. Or you. I'm trying to earn your respect. That way, we can build a rapport. Even a relationship of sorts. We can connect. If you are giving me your attention right now, then you've already won massive amounts of my respect. Kudos. I appreciate your time and patience, and I will try not to disappoint.

  I won't mess you around any more, either. Promise.

  Well, maybe just a little...

  I could do this for a long time. Do different things to keep you reading, throwing you little bones. The mere fact that you are still there tells me I'm doing my job.

  So far.

  This little introduction is intended to be supplementary material. In other words, you don't have to read it if you don't want to. Feel free to skip it and get to the meaty stuff. I just wanted to give you something extra. This should be more personal than me just telling you a bunch of stories. If I can't impart some nugget of life-changing wisdom, and I seriously doubt I can, then I should at least endeavour to open my heart just a crack and let you take a peak at what's inside. Show you a glimpse of my inner workings.

  No problem.

  Enter.

  Welcome!

  I like the weird stuff. I have a fascination with the paranormal. Unsolved mysteries, ghosts, vampires, monsters, killer clowns, bring it on.

  I am not a religious man, but there are certain things I believe. Primarily, I believe in the power of rock n roll and positive thinking. I also believe there is a science to everything. A logic. The universe isn't the gloriously chaotic realm of randomness some of us imagine it to be. There are hidden forces at work, binding all our crazy lives together. There is evidence of it everywhere, if you look. I like to believe in a kind of incorruptible karma, a foolproof cosmic judging system that always ensures the good get rewarded and the bad get punished.

  Sadly, the older I get, the more this romantic daydream of mine reeks of bullshit. This world in which we live is a fucked up place, with many more questions than answers.

  The name of the game here is entertainment, and as long as we're both having fun, it's all good. We may share a giggle, or a little shudder.

  Maybe both at the same time.

  Wouldn't that be weird?

  Weird but cool, I reckon.

  Words are like weapons. They can be used to lull you into a false sense of security, transport you to a different place and a different time, or they can be used to batter you into bloody submission.

  We're not friends yet, but we've been introduced. Briefly. And right now we're getting to know each other. We may even hit it off, who knows?

  I might even tell you a dirty secret.

  I might tell you that I've killed somebody. Spill all the gory details. Maybe I'll even tell you where I buried the body. If I buried it. Maybe I chopped it up with a meat cleaver and stored it in my freezer instead. Enough good meat there to last a while!

  Maybe I made all that up.

  You probably did.

  Maybe I'm a compulsive liar.

  You probably are.

  But in that case, maybe I was lying when I told you I was lying about being a murdering cannibal.

  Or I could be telling the truth.

  You just don't know. That's the beauty of it.

  That's entertainment.

  Don't you love it when something you see or hear forces you to think of something in a slightly different way? Sometimes there isn't even a eureka moment, there's a little shift, the smallest change in perception that skews reality just enough so it cracks open to allow something different to enter your life. A little nugget you can take something from, that can maybe benefit you in some way in the future. The future is a big place. Anything can happen. You never know what tools you might need.

  But right now, I have your attention. I should do something with it. Turn the screw. Keep you interested.

  Keep you reading.

  I could change the pace at any time.

  To do that you just use shorter sentences. Like this.

  Even shorter paragraphs.

  Blam.

  This technique probably wouldn't be we welcomed in the traditional print form. All that wasted paper. Paper is expensive. But here, now, in the modern age, it doesn't really matter about paper any more.

  I find the odd expletive also works well.

  Fuck.

  Like that.

  To really emphasise the point I could add an exclamation mark!

  Fuck!

  Or italics.

  EVEN BLOCK CAPITALS.

  BLOCK CAPITALS AND EXCLAMATION MARK!

  ITALICS, BLOCK CAPITALS AND EXCLAMATION MARK!

  You get the point. For as long as I have your attention, you are mine. And I am yours.

  But I digress.

  Now, on to business...

  What you are reading is the first of my X books. I hope there will be many more. It's called X mainly because it contains ten stories. Ten little slices of dark fiction. But also because of the mysterious connotations conjured up by the figure X, the unknown quantity.

  The X Factor.

  I wanted to call this book the X-Files. But of course, that's been done already.

  So has the X Factor, unfortunately.

  The X books are intended to be a loose record of my short stories, in roughly chronological order. The stories in this first volume are among the first I ever wrote. Some I wrote, re-wrote and re-wrote again, obsessively, for years. Knowing what I know now, I can say all that polishing was probably a result of low confidence, rather than a form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I didn't rate myself very highly as a
writer. How could I? I was far too young to write well. I didn't know enough about the world with all its exotic pleasures and harsh realities. I lacked life experience.

  I was also afraid of rejection. I didn't want anyone else to look at my shiny little diamonds and tell me they were shitty lumps of clouded glass. Receiving a rejection slip is the literary equivalent of someone looking at your child and telling you its butt ugly. I've since learned not to take it so personally. Sometimes, it's best to just let go. Let your little birds fly, and move on. If nothing else, for the sake of your own sanity.

  I've also learned not to worry too much about what other people think or say about my creative exploits. I dance to my own fiddle, and don't need anyone's approval. It's fantastic if it comes, but if it doesn't I won't lose any sleep. If I was a recording artist, X wouldn't be a greatest hits collection. It would be more like one of those compilations of early releases and obscure b-sides underground punk bands often put out. Like Goodbye Blue & White by Less Than Jake. Therein lies a different kind of value.

  I hope the X books chart my progress both as a writer, and as a person. As their careers progress, many writers develop a selective memory and choose to ignore much of their earlier, less-polished work. This is understandable, as writing is a skill that takes a lifetime to hone, and even then it will never be perfect. You can only ever hope to be a slightly better writer than you were the day before. It's not an exact science.

  Some of these stories have been lost over the years, and then found again. Some were lost before they were even written. The imagination is a tricky thing. Ideas come and go, sometimes too quickly to get a handle on them. They show themselves for a fraction of a second, then they are gone forever. Others stick around like bad smells, steadfastly refusing to dissipate.

  There are a few bits and pieces that didn't make the X grade, didn't make the grade anywhere in fact, and probably never will. In the interests of quality control some of my scribblings will forever lie dormant, gathering virtual dust on my hard drive. For the most part though, I want to lay everything bare. Figuratively speaking.

  Most of these stories have been published before, mainly in long-defunct small press magazines that flourished in the late 1990's. Most of those magazines have since been obliterated by the internet. Which means the rights revert back to me. Yay. Full details about their previous homes, where applicable, can be found elsewhere in this book. I don't want to get side-tracked right now. We're on a roll.

  Also included are a few stories that slipped through the cracks. I believe honesty is a virtue, so I'll come clean and tell you that no editor I submitted them to liked these poor homeless vagrants enough to publish them. Either that, or for one reason or another I didn't even try to get them published.

  These stories are not linked in any way, but some may be connected by common threads, or were written in the same time frame. Throughout, you will undoubtedly be able to identify my slightly sardonic sense of humour and gravitational pull toward the dark side.

  There are several ongoing themes in this little collection. If you are one of those people who have a burning desire to know where all the ideas came from, or if you want to know the publishing histories behind the individual stories, fast-forward to the notes at the back.

  I have resisted the urge to make wholesale changes, though some of the stories had been edited or revised slightly to bring them up to date. Like having a tattoo touched-up. The original design is kept intact, but I've tried to make the colours slightly clearer and more vivid.

  One last thing, after their inclusion in this collection, all the stories contained herein will be officially retired. It's time to move on, I think. But I hope there will be more X books in the future.

  Thanks for reading. Now, on with the show.

  C. M. Saunders

  13th February 2014

  A Thin Disguise

  It had been just another day for Marcus Lewis. Nine tedious, stress-filled hours trapped in a stuffy office cubicle sorting out other people’s petty financial problems. All the while his pretentious prick of a boss breathing down his neck like a viper waiting to strike. Throwing deadline after deadline at him, pressurising him, bullying him, increasing his workload daily to almost unmanageable levels.

  And this was quite possibly Marcus' most despised part of the day; the endless crawl home across town in rush hour traffic, back aching, eyelids drooping and head pounding. Full to bursting point with strings of names and numbers.

  Momentarily, he experienced a waking vision of sickening clarity. His weary head finally admitted defeat and actually exploded, spraying a vile mixture of blood, tissue, skull fragments and fleshy brain matter all over the train compartment and his startled fellow commuters. Most horrifying of all was the fact that in addition to the gore, there were numbers everywhere - sickly, obscene, throbbing numbers which looked as if they were made out of gristle dancing in the air to an unheard tune, blood-soaked and frenzied.

  Marcus' eyes snapped open and he shook his head violently. Couldn't fall asleep, not yet. Not on a train full of strangers. Potentially violent, dangerous strangers.

  The soothing rhythmic clattering of the train seemed to be hypnotising him, making it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open, never mind focus them. His head was swimming. Oh, how he longed to be safely home so he could take off this suffocating mask and strip himself of the thin disguise that enveloped him, suffocating in its closeness.

  It was almost dark when Marcus finally inserted the key into his front door. By now he was sweating profusely, simultaneously panting and quivering with excitement. It seemed like a lifetime since he was last home, warm, safe and secure. The heavy wooden door swung inward with a welcoming creak.

  Once inside, he stood motionless for a few minutes, breathing heavily and savouring the moment. Then he slowly peeled off his overcoat and removed his tie, then his shoes. Gradually, the speed of his actions increased until he was gripped by a feverish, almost sexual urgency. He hastily clawed at his shirt, ripping off a button but barely noticing. His trousers followed, then his socks, cotton vest, and finally his slightly soiled underpants.

  The finale of this strange, frenetic and borderline ritualistic striptease was the careful removal of his gold watch, St. Christopher's medal, and chunky signet ring which he wore to the office. For Marcus, this signified the stripping of the last remaining trinkets linking him to his other (daytime) life. He placed the jewellery in a pewter dish on a small, functional oak coffee table in the lounge, the entire ritual carried out in eerie silence as Marcus possessed no television, DVD player, or computer. To him it was all useless, non-essential electronic crap designed to keep people too busy to see the big picture.

  Undressed, he made his way to the bathroom where he showered for over an hour, rubbing furiously at his pale, pimpled body with soap, sponges and flannels. When at last he was satisfied that no lingering trace of dirt or grime contaminated his slick, naked body, he dabbed himself dry with the pinkest, fluffiest of towels, and made his way casually to the bedroom. This was his favourite place in the whole world, and he showed his pleasure by humming softly and admiring himself at every opportunity along the way. He even let out the odd feline purr.

  Inside the bedroom, Marcus sat at his dressing table, studying himself in detail in the gloriously huge mirror. He ran his fingers over the velvet smooth skin of his chest and caressed his pert, pink nipples, gasping with satisfaction. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

  STUBBLE!

  It couldn't be!

  No, not stubble.

  Relieved, he realised that a single, solitary hair protruded cheekily from his skin, just beneath the left nipple. God only knew how long that little transgressor had been hiding out there. He gripped it between his thumb and forefinger and plucked sharply, wincing even though he actually liked the delicate stab of pain and the resultant warm tingle.

  Marcus was very fussy about his chest. And his arms. And legs. In fact, he absolutely detested
body hair of all description, especially that tangled and messy clump down below, forever seeking to obscure his most favourable feature. That was why he spent literally hours every week systematically shaving and plucking every square inch of his body.

  Every. Square. Inch.

  Except, of course, the unkempt ginger growth which covered his throat and lower face. Although keeping his body free of unsightly hair had become something of a compulsion, Marcus absolutely loved his beard. It was a feeble last line of defence against the outside world, offering at least partial protection. A final barrier to hide behind.

  Marcus opened a drawer in the dressing table and took out his prized make-up set. With a certain amount of anguish (nothing seemed to exactly match his skin tone) he selected the necessary nail varnish, lipstick, eye shadow and mascara. Then he applied them, skilfully and with a sense of purpose of which any professional would be proud, revelling in this act of indulgence and guided in his work by the trusty hand of experience.

  While he worked on his face, Marcus continued to hum soft tunes to himself and let his mind wander. All thoughts of numbers thankfully departed. Instead, his mind turned to madness. The nature of the beast.

  He thought about that subject quite a lot.

  They say that a true madman is not aware of his condition, as the line between fiction and reality becomes increasingly blurred. He knew his actions were not those of a normal person. But he decided a long time ago that he wasn't insane, for the simple fact that if he was, he wouldn't know it. He was just a little different to other men, that was all.

  Very different.

  Unique, even.

  In the worst possible scenario, he saw life as a single, infinitely long path winding its way gracefully through a dark, dense forest. Occasionally, he would leave the well-travelled path and venture, of his own accord, into the surrounding black wilderness where he would stumble around for a few hours exploring, before locating (admittedly, he sometimes had difficulty doing this) and rejoining the path.